Life and Times of Alex Rider
by pseudonym222
Summary: Nothing ever turns out the way Alex plans. Becoming a full-time spy at 16 was never going to be easy, but when the life he built for himself becomes threatened, he is forced turn to an unlikely source for help. Old faces and new threats keep appearing at his door step, but he can deal with danger. If only life weren't so awkward.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

"Do you feel anything weird, Tom?" Alex Rider asked, pausing mid-stride and rubbing the gooseflesh rising on his neck.

"I think the school needs new milk, if that's what you mean," his friend answered over the lunch table, grimacing.

Alex shook his head, and subtly looked around. "No, not that. I mean do you feel eyes on us?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably. "You're back on campus, Alex. _Everyone_ stares at you when you come back." At this Tom grinned broadly, and punched him in the arm. "You're the bad boy on campus, you know. You could have any girl you want, man."

Alex rolled his eyes. "I think a drug dealing, gangbanging murder is a little too bad to attract the kind of girls I go for."

"No one listens to the rumors," Tom said, waving him off. "They're so far out in left field, only the freshmen believe any of it."

"You're a good friend, Tom," Alex said, taking another bite of his sandwich. "But I don't believe a word you just said."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, smiling once more before becoming downright indignant as he looked at the faces around them. "Doesn't it bother you, though? You save lives everyday, and they spit in your face. I _has _to bother you, because it drives me up the wall."

"They don't know any better," Alex said lamely.

"Yes they do!" Tom half yelled. "They deliberately choose not to see. You come back each time with more scrapes and bruises and broken bones, and more close calls than before, and they don't suspect abuse? Bullshit."

"I'm not being abused," Alex protested quietly, a blush rising to his cheeks as passersby stared. "Please lower your voice."

Tom looked like he wanted to argue, but when he spoke, it was in whispers again. "Just because it is the government doing the abusing, doesn't mean it's legal, or _right_."

"That may be true, but it's different than it was a year ago," Alex countered. "I'm _choosing_ to work with MI6 now."

"Only because you have no viable career options anymore since your grades suck ass. If you weren't so "ill" all the time, you could do anything you want," Tom spat.

"My grades are great," Alex defended. It took a lot of time and hard work, but his grades were nothing to scoff at. "Besides, you know there's more to it than that," Alex said, still slightly mortified and unnerved from the stares.

It was quiet between them before Tom said finally, "Your life sucks, man."

"Yes it does," he replied sarcastically chipper.

"_You _suck, man." Tom punched him in the arm again, this time a little harder in his frustration, before changing the subject for both of their sanity.

A little while later, as he walked to Spanish, Alex tried not to let the stares, and the wide berth his peers (once his friends, but he didn't like thinking about that) gave him in the hallway, get to him. Of course he had noticed the way he was regarded in school—he'd be a pretty shitty spy if he hadn't—but he never did anything to counter the rumors. It was better all around if he just let them believe what they wanted.

In fact, being a hardened criminal probably helped his cover. It explained the injuries, the paranoia, and the way he held himself like a seasoned soldier. He had even thought about perpetrating some rumors at one point, but never could bring himself to follow through with it. Some part of him—despite what he told Tom—did care what they thought about him and still wanted to be friends with them, even if he had burned those bridges a long time ago.

He arrived at Spanish a few minutes early so he could grab his customary seat in the back left hand corner. He tried to sit in a seat similar to this in every class so he had a full view of the classroom, and could see most of what was going on outside. Even though it was the farthest seat from the door, it was right by the window if he needed to escape quickly.

He settled down into his desk, removing his notebook and pens. He hadn't forgotten his suspicions form this morning. Someone wad watching him. He was used to the stares his classmates gave him, and they had long ago stopped unnerving him. The feeling he got today was a far cry from anything your average teenager could do. Alex just wasn't sure if whoever was watching him was a friend or foe. He wouldn't put it past MI6 to have him tailed,_ for his own protection_, of course. He was actually surprised they hadn't yet.

_No, that isn't exactly true_, he thought. The janitors all had guns hidden in their uniforms, and it certainly wasn't a bleach solution sitting in those Clorox bottles. He had seen it eat through the lockers when that idiot Greg Jones had mistaken a whoopee cushion for a landmine.

They were all very professional and kept things clean with military-like discipline, but would wink conspiratorially at Alex, or slip a chocolate bar into his locker when they could get away with it. Alex would never say it, but it was nice to have people at school that didn't think the worst of him.

Now that he thought about it, they probably pitied him.

Something glinted in the sun across the courtyard, and Alex had to control the urge to whip around and see what it was. Instead he yawned and casually turned his head to look out the window.

There were no suspicious cars, no one peering through a window, no one hiding in a tree, but it was amazing how little outdoor movement there was when school was in session. All the students and teachers were inside, and except for gym students and the stray parent picking their child up early, only the birds were active.

Birds don't glitter in the sunlight, but sniper rifles do, and there was a clear shot from the third floor of the science wing.

He was paranoid, sure, but his instincts weren't something to be ignored, so he ducked his head and pretended to sleep, effectively blocking any view of his body through the window. He didn't think anyone would start shooting without being certain that Alex would be dead as a result, and prayed that Mrs. Ruiz would let him be. She usually didn't mind if he didn't pay attention; his Spanish was as good as hers.

It would have been nice if he could have actually taken a nap, but the adrenaline was already kicking in, forcing him to strain his ears for the impossibility of anticipating the attack. Even if he could hear the noises all the way from the science wing, the beating of his heart drowned out most everything.

He jumped about a mile and a half when the bell rang, but didn't lift his head. When all of the students had left, he grabbed his backpack, got on his hands and knees and crawled along the wall to the door.

"Mr. Rider, _what _are you doing?"

He looked up to see Mrs. Ruiz staring at him with an expression that made it clear she was having difficulty deciding whether she should be worried for his sanity or her safety around him.

"My, uh, legs cramped, and I wasn't sure if standing on them would be a good idea," he said. It was ridiculous, but as good as any other excuse for this situation.

"Get up," she said sharply. "If you're injured, I can call the nurse here."

"That's ok, Mrs. Ruiz," Alex said, cautiously getting to his feet. He was close enough to the door to make a dash for it. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He headed straight for the science wing.

**PAGE BREAK**

_E306, E308, E310. _Alex stopped in front E312, and peered in. There was no class occupying the room. It was meant for labs, and was still shiny and new from the recent construction. Bunsen burners adorned each tables, microscopes sat innocently in the corner, and through the open storage room door he could see well-stocked shelves.

_Well that's not suspicious at all, _he thought, eyeing an open window—the same one that had a clear view of his Spanish classroom. He grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, plucked his abused library card from its resting place, and put it to work in the doorjamb. With a wiggle and a flick, the door swung open under his practiced fingers.

_Now if only I could get a girl to do that,_ he thought wryly, stepping soundlessly into the classroom. He hands itched for a weapon, but settled for clenching and unclenching his fists.

Someone had definitely been here, but that didn't tell him much. It was a classroom on a school day, and any number of people could have been here. Still… it didn't hurt to look around.

After making sure there was no one in the room, Alex made his way to the window, his eyes peeled. Across the courtyard, Mrs. Ruiz was still teaching. From the displeased look on her face, it was her introductory class. Lisa Geller, an awkward freshman, was sitting in his seat picking at a pimple.

Crouching down, he popped open the lens on his imaginary rifle, and turned his body to take aim. He was taller than Lisa was, and took that into account, ending up aiming for the mustachioed man dancing the tango in an old poster.

He carefully noted the position of his elbows and where he thought the rifle would rest, but the windowsill didn't look disrupted where he imagined it would be—or anywhere for that matter. It wasn't necessarily good news, he reminded himself. It wasn't like there was wet paint, or even a speck of dust, to disrupt. The whole place was absolutely pristine_._

_Damn those militant janitors._

With another glance around for intruders, Alex stuck his head out the window. With nothing but smooth brick to hold onto, and no tree or flagpole to shimmy upwards, there was no way to climb to the roof using this route. _Just as well_, he thought, _I doubt I could get away with scaling the building in broad daylight._

He continued his investigation, feeling around the window frame, and pausing when his fingers connected with metal. He leaned out the window for better leverage, and took ahold of it. It was surprisingly hard to rip off the wall for such a small device, and when he finally got it free, his moment of victory was short lived.

A foot connected between his shoulder blades, driving his stomach into the sill, and the wind from lungs. The small metal device—what he now believed to be a camera—tumbled from his hand and shattered on the concrete below.

Without waiting for him to catch his breath, a shoulder drove into his back, attempting to force him out the window. Alex was ready for him, though, and held on tight, taking the chance to kick his attacker. It was a blind hit, but he was rewarded with soft flesh, a stumble, and a curse.

He pivoted, falling expertly into a fighting stance. He didn't recognize his attacker, but didn't wait to ask questions. He used his momentum to fuel his punch, which was deftly parried and returned. He easily ducked under it, but was caught in the ankles as they were swept out from under him.

He rolled under the desk as the man reached for him. Alex grabbed the desk by its legs and swung with all his might. The man stumbled into the microscopes, knocking them to the floor (Alex couldn't help a wince at that) as he and the desk collided, and Alex scrambled to his feet, quickly looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon. His eyes fell almost immediately on the fire extinguisher, his feet not far behind. He managed to rip it off the wall before his attacker regained enough balance to tackle him to the ground.

They grappled for the fire extinguisher, but Alex was at a clear disadvantage. The attacker was bigger and stronger, and had him effectively pinned to the ground. Alex could see the spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth, and even more disturbing, could see the determination and thrill in the mans eyes.

In a moment of little forethought and much tactical questionability, Alex smacked the fire extinguisher from both of their hands and catapulted it across the room. The sounds of glass shattering filled the room, but Alex had little time to feel guilty.

Hands wrapped around his throat and shook him roughly against the tile. Stars were dancing in his eyes—whether it was from the lack of oxygen or his head striking the floor, he didn't know. He forced himself to focus, and brought his fist up with all the strength he could muster. His was face met with a spray of blood and he heard a sickening crack as the man's nose collapsed, but he was able to push him back and roll out from under him. Alex sprinted across the room, skidding through the broken glass to grab the fire extinguisher.

"I'm going to kill you, asshole," the man roared. Or at least, that's what Alex assumed he said; it was difficult to understand through the broken cartilage and swelling tissue.

"What was that?" he asked, aiming the fire extinguisher and letting it rip right as the man opened his mouth. He spluttered for a moment before both of them froze. Footsteps thundered down the hallway, and before Alex could stop him, the man jumped out the window.

To top off his never-ending run of bad luck, Mr. Bray, backed by two fierce looking janitors, appeared in the doorway. He took one look at the wreckage that used to be his state-of-the-art science lab and Alex's disheveled appearance and guilty expression, and began yelling. Alex was impressed he didn't have an aneurysm right then and there.

The janitors swept the room, and holstered their guns before Mr. Bray could see them, giving Alex the sheepish look of someone who knew they would be of no help.

Alex had faced many death-defying situations. He had fought trained assassins, had jumped from great heights, had survived a gunshot wound, but he had never been so scared or felt such foreboding as he did listening to Mr. Bray rant and yell that he would never walk these halls again.

**PAGE BREAK**

"Of all the stupid, juvenile, _expensive_ pranks you could have pulled. I am at a loss for words, Mr. Rider," Mr. Bray ranted. He hadn't come up for air in about twenty minutes, and was still going strong. "Tell me, what possessed you to _trash_ the most costly room in our building a second time? Do you have a grudge against me, or one of the teachers, or is it some kind of personal vendetta against science in general?"

He paused as if expecting an answer, but continued before Alex could reply. "It doesn't matter, it's not my problem anymore. This was the last straw. I am expelling you, and there isn't any amount of money that can convince me otherwise. Yes, Ms. Bedfordshire?"

The secretary entered after a firm knock. "Mr. Rider's guardian is here to see you."

Alex spoke for the first time since entering Mr. Bray's office. "My guardian? Did she mention a name?"

Ms. Bedfordshire gave a friendly nod. "It's a strange name, if you don't mind me saying. Tulip Jones."

Alex felt his jaw go slack. "Mrs. Jones is here?"

"Send her in," Mr. Bray ordered, glaring at Alex one last time before he had someone to defend him. Petty, yes, but well deserved.

A pretty, well-dressed black woman entered the room, closing and locking the door as if she owned the place. She walk over to him, hand outstretched for him to shake.

"Mr. Bray, I am Tulip Jones, here to talk about Alex Rider and his attendance at your school."

"In short, Alex Rider will _not _be attending this school," Mr. Bray answered, trying not to wince at her deceptively strong handshake.

"I think you will find that he will," she said sitting down and opening her briefcase.

"No," Mr. Bray said firmly. "He is a menace and a danger. There is no changing my mind on this matter."

"There are certain things of which you are not yet aware," Mrs. Jones said, plucking out a very familiar document. "I think you will find that these events look different in a certain light."

"Mrs. Jones, you can't be serious," Alex said, intercepting the Official Secrets Act.

She glanced at him with a quirked eyebrow. "I am very serious, Alex."

"This is _Brooklands_, Mrs. Jones," he countered, already disliking how desperate he sounded.

"Yes, Alex. This is Brooklands, your school. Don't you want to keep it safe?"

"We can keep it safe without getting him—or anyone—involved."

"I'm afraid you are wrong on that point," Mrs. Jones said, pulling another copy out and sliding it over to Mr. Bray. "There is the safety of the other schoolchildren we need to consider. He needs to know when they are in danger."

"You want me to sign the Official Secrets Act?" Mr. Bray asked in alarm. His two guests ignored him.

"Are you going to tell their parents, as well?" Alex asked, knowing the answer already.

"Concerned parents will only hinder our security measures. On the other hand, we need Mr. Bray's cooperation to make everything run smoothly."

"Need a scapegoat, is what you mean," Alex muttered, shooting a withering glare at Mrs. Jones.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Bray managed to strangle out. "What is going on here?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Bray," Alex said soothingly. "You don't have to sign anything. Expel me. I can find another school."

"No you cannot, Alex," Mrs. Jones cut in sharply. "I think you are underestimating the capital we have expended in making this the safest school in England."

"What capital? Safest school in England? Are my students in danger?"

Mrs. Jones turned to him with a calm smile. "Sign the document, and we will answer your questions, Mr. Bray."

"No," said Alex, gripping the armrests in a death grip. "Everything is fine, but you will regret it if you sign that piece of paper."

Mr. Bray narrowed his eyes. That sounded a little too much like a threat from a boy who had pushed him to wit's end day, after day, after God-forsaken-_day. _He wasn't about to do what he wanted, especially when it clearly meant so much to the little devil.

He signed the paper with a vindictive flourish.

He only felt a little guilty at the completely crushed look on the boy's face.

Mrs. Jones tapped the papers on the desk, and placed them neatly back into her briefcase. "Well then, now that _that_ is taken care of, Mr. Bray, I would like to-"

"Mrs. Jones, please don't do this. This place is normal. It's un-" he searched for the word "—un_touched, _and I like it like that. They can't know."

Mrs. Jones' eyes softened. She looked like she wanted to pat him reassuringly, or hug him, or something, but thankfully restrained. "You know it doesn't work like that, Alex. You can't compartmentalize your life."

On some level, Alex knew this. He knew that he didn't stop being Alex, superspy, when he walked through Brooklands' doors, but it didn't make it any easier to acknowledge. He didn't want to air his dirty laundry in the only place he could pretend to be normal—the only place he ever felt safe. He didn't want more pitying eyes, or condescending glares, or to lose his chance at ever making friends. _He_ knew he was freakish and dangerous. That was enough, no one else needed to know.

"Alex, this isn't about you," Mrs. Jones said, hardening her tone. "This is about protecting innocent schoolchildren." The "not you" went unsaid. "Innocent schoolchildren" was a category both of them knew he no longer fell under.

"Fine," Alex conceded, crossing his arms defiantly. "But only Mr. Bray."

Jones nodded, turning toward the headmaster, who had been sitting there sifting through the million and one scenarios that could have possibly brought Alex Rider and a high-ranking government official into his office.

She cleared her throat. "As I was saying. Mr. Bray, I would like to re-introduce you to Agent Alex Rider, Military Intelligence Six's best agent, and worst kept secret."

"How do you do," Alex quipped pithily, the very image of a recalcitrant teenager.

Mr. Bray was waited for the punch line.

"This is not funny," he said when it never came. "I should have expected this from Mr. Rider, but I never would have expected it from an adult," he seethed, turning to Mrs. Jones. "Why on earth would you go along with such a scheme?"

"I assure you, sir-"

"No, enough. I want you out," he thundered. He stood angrily from his chair and pointed at the door. "Do not come back here again."

"I am afraid we cannot do that, sir," Mrs. Jones said, completely unaffected by the dramatics. "We need you to understand the situation fully before I can take my leave."

"You expect me to believe that this-this ruffian-hoodlum-thug-of-a-deviant _boy_ is working for MI6_?" _

"Crazy isn't it?" Alex said sarcastically. "Sounds like it should be a ten part series."

Mrs. Jones sent him a look that clearly said, "you are not helping," at which Alex only grinned.

"Here is my identification," Mrs. Jones said, ungracefully shoving her badge in Mr. Bray's face. He took it in his hands, weighing it and squinting for any flaw as if he would be able to tell the difference.

"This doesn't prove anything," he said more quietly. "It could be a fake."

"I assure you, it is not," Mrs. Jones answered. She sighed. "Think back, Mr. Bray. When did all this start?"

"When Mr. Rider saw fit to blow up the science wing," he answered, growing angry again.

"No, no," she said, and took another route. "Was Alex ever 'ill' before his uncle died?"

"I had never even heard of him before his uncle died," said Bray, meaning the teachers never had cause to complain about him. It was as close as he'd ever come to complimenting Alex.

"Yes. And each time he returned, what did the teachers say?"

His brow crinkled as he thought back. For a time Alex's teachers were concerned that he was being physically abused, but by whom? He had no relatives, and his guardian was a small woman—sassy for sure, but who also clearly cared for Alex.

It was only after her first parent-teacher meeting that the rumors began to change. Alex Rider was not longer a boy to be pitied, but a boy to be cautious of. His grades, once spotless, began to plummet, his reputation quickly following them into the deep end.

The mystery of Alex Rider quickly became the favorite pastime of teacher and student alike. It was generally agreed upon that he must have been in the hospital for wounds inflicted in turf wars or something of the kind. Not a single soul believed he had been ill so many times, no matter how many doctor notes he handed in. He had always been healthy as a horse before. His health couldn't have changed that drastically in such a short amount of time.

_That kid is going to be dead before thirty_, they said, _and take about thirty people with him when he snuffs the candle._

"I don't recall," he said finally.

"I'm sure," Mrs. Jones answered drolly.

"You must have noticed the injuries and absences," she said. "You must have been curious of how he obtained them."

"And you expect me to believe that he was wounded on a mission of some kind?" Mr. Bray scoffed. "This must have started almost three years ago. No secret agency in their right mind would hire a thirteen year old."

"I was fourteen," Alex supplied helpfully. Mrs. Jones elbowed him.

"I think what we do would surprise you. When England is in danger, we go to great length to secure her safety."

Mr. Bray eyed Alex speculatively, before leaning forward and telling Mrs. Jones, "I hope you know that that wasn't reassuring in the least."

"It should be," countered Mrs. Jones. "Agent Rider is one of the best in the business."

"That isn't any more reassuring than the last one," said Mr. Bray.

"He hasn't failed a mission yet," Jones persisted, quiet pride in her voice.

"How many has he been on?"

"That's classified."

"I'm sure," Mr. Bray said, unimpressed.

"Believe whatever you want about Alex," she said giving up, "but you must know that your students are in danger. At approximately 12:53pm in room E312, an intruder engaged Agent Rider in combat. Alex managed to fight him off, but he escaped through the window moments before your arrival. We found an unidentified camera on the premise, and several bottles of volatile chemicals missing from E312's storage closet. Whether these events are linked, we have yet to determine. This will be Agent Rider's main goal in the upcoming weeks."

She brought her watch up to her mouth in a very James Bond-esq fashion, and spoke into it. "Ms. Bedfordshire, send in Smithers, please."

Alex looked at Mrs. Jones in surprise. "Ms. Bedfordshire works for MI6?"

Mrs. Jones hm-ed noncommittally. "But she was here before I even started working for you!" Alex said, outraged.

"So she has." And before Alex could question her, Smithers walked in. "Ah, Smithers," Mrs. Jones said loudly, "show Alex and Mr. Bray what gadgets you have for them."

"They're fun ones this time, old boy," he said, patting Alex on the shoulder. "My team had a jolly old time designing them."

He pushed the papers and trinkets on Mr. Bray's desk out of the way, ignoring his protests, and sat several items of his own out on display.

He pointed first to a bottle of hand sanitizer. "This bottle actually contains a serum that will gently compel the user to tell the truth. It has to be inhaled or ingested, however, so try to get your target to touch his face or his food.

"This ring," he continued, picking up a gaudy class ring, "is actually a Taser. You have to hit someone pretty hard to activate it; otherwise you'd be shocking everyone you shake hands with. Do you like the design?"

Under normal circumstances, he would never have been caught dead wearing such an abomination. It looked like something straight out of the Godfather: big, golden, and flashy.

"It's a bit much," Alex said, taking it anyway.

It's quite _shocking_, I know." Smithers chortled, but no one appreciated his humor.

He cleared his throat. "I am also updating your phone," he said, handing Alex a shiny new iPhone. "It does everything the old one did." He added for Mr. Bray's benefit, "It can amplify distant conversations, take x-rays, turn into a bomb, that sort of thing."

"A bomb!" Mr. Bray choked.

"Just a small one," he said happily. "Won't take down a building, but it'll take out a door. Last thing," he turned back to Alex. "You still have your ear pierced from that mission to Monte Carlo, right? Jolly good. This earring, paired with this watch will act as a communication device for anyone _in the know_."

Alex quirked a brow. "The cell phone wasn't enough?"

Smithers scoffed. "A cell phone is much too obvious."

"What is the pager for?" Mr. Bray asked, curious despite himself.

"That is for you, good fellow," Smithers said, handing it to him.

"Really?" Mr. Bray asked, trying not to sound too excited as he turned it over in his hands. "What does it do?"

"It's a pager that… pages."

"Oh."

"Sorry, old chap. Our budget is much smaller for civilians. But it works like a charm," he said, trying to cheer Mr. Bray up. "Press that button on the left, and it'll call Alex immediately."

"It'll call Alex?" This just kept getting better. "Why won't it call the police, or you?"

"Because Alex is the agent assigned to this case. As such he will be in much closer proximity if you required assistance," Mrs. Jones answered. "If Alex deems it necessary to contact us, he has the ability to do so."

"Wonderful," he snapped, clipping the pager to his belt.

"That will be all. We'll be in touch, and remember, if you reveal anything you heard in this room today, you and anyone you tell will face the full penalty of the law."

Mrs. Jones stood up and gave Mr. Bray a pleasant smile over another one of her crushing handshakes.

"Come on, Alex," she said, heading toward the door. "It's time you returned to class."

"I think it would be better for my cover if I skived off and got high," Alex quipped. Mrs. Jones didn't bother to reply.

The door clicked shut, and Mr. Bray was left alone with a whirlwind of thoughts, an aching hand, and a new pager.

_Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful._


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

Not an hour had gone by before Mr. Bray paged Alex. He was in history; the last class of the day, when he felt his watch vibrate. Alex barely waited for it to flash Mr. Bray's identification number and location before he was out the door.

He didn't bother making excuses to the teacher, and sprinted as soon as he hit the hallway. He arrived at the office in under three minutes, startling Ms. Bedfordshire quite thoroughly when he swept inside. He sent her an apologetic glance as he slowed down in front of Mr. Bray's door. The blinds were closed, and all was silent inside. He turned the knob.

Mr. Bray, red-faced and unharmed, stood quickly when Alex entered the room as quiet as death and as light-footed as a ninja. Alex visibly relaxed when he saw Mr. Bray was alone, but the tenseness in his shoulders remained, his senses on high alert.

"What happened, sir?" he asked, looking for any injuries or signs of struggle. "Are you hurt? Did someone threaten you? Where's the danger?"

"It was a er-" He cleared his throat. "It was a test run."

"You're kidding me."

He probably should have scolded Rider for using such a tone, but felt rather ashamed of himself. Rider was looking at him in a way that made him feel very small indeed.

"I have to admit," Mr. Bray said grudgingly, "that I am impressed with your, um, response time."

"I am more than capable of doing my job," Alex said, crossing his arms in irritation.

"I wasn't doubting you," he lied. "I just wanted to make sure my pager worked. You know, just in case."

"What a good idea," he said. He gave Mr. Bray a charming smile, and Mr. Bray found himself smiling back. "In fact, why don't I go home early, to see if it works at a distance," Alex suggested pleasently, grabbing one of his letterheads, and pushing a pen in his hand.

Mr. Bray stared at him incredulously, but was cut off with a sarcastic, "You know, just in case."

He muttered angrily under his breath, but wrote the note anyway.

**PAGE BREAK**

The next day, Alex was paged again, this time during first period pre-calculus. He still sprinted to the office, but took the time to tell the teacher he was leaving for the bathroom this time. He arrived there, again under three minutes, to find Mr. Bray once more red-faced and unharmed.

"It was an accident," he muttered, but Alex didn't miss the newly dinged wood or the now tarnished pager.

"_Accidently_ hammer something else into your desk next time you feel frustrated," Alex snipped, not bothering asking for permission to leave.

The third time was purposeful, at least. His watch had vibrated as soon as the bell for lunch rang, conveniently enough. He knew even before he arrived at Mr. Bray's office that the headmaster wanted to talk.

"I have some questions," he said, once Alex arrived, and gestured for him to sit.

Alex rubbed his forehead, wishing that anyone else had Mr. Bray's pager. _Anyone. _Even someone in Scorpia would be preferable—at least then he could deal with the idiot.

"Look, sir. This pager is for emergencies," he said, not bothering to with manners, "and since we have different definitions of the word, let me spell it out for you." He snatched the device straight from his hand, and shook it in his face. "You use this pager if your _life_ or the _life_ of someone you know is in danger. It is not the bell for the butler."

He threw it back on the desk, and sat down, still glaring at the headmaster.

"I know it's not to be used lightly," Mr. Bray hissed. "But what would you have me do? Call you over the intercom everyday? I don't think your cover would last very long."

Alex felt some of the frustration drain away, and sat down in the offered chair. "Give me your mobile," he said with a sigh, knowing he was going to immensely regret this decision.

Eyes narrowed. "Why should I?"

"I am going to program my number into it, so you can call me instead of misusing your pager."

Mr. Bray handed it over, watching hawkishly for any misbehavior. He was still half convinced that all this was some elaborate practical joke.

He just couldn't see it! Hunched over the smartphone, Alex Rider didn't look like a spy at all. He didn't even look like the miscreant he was supposed to be—he looked like any other student at the school. From the floppy hair, to the grimace, to the jeans, and right down to the-well, alright maybe not the shoes. Most boys his age didn't wear sturdy combat boots. But even so!

It wasn't that he couldn't imagine that Alex Rider was regularly thrown into violent situations-he had long ago accepted that as fact, but it was difficult to think that Alex Rider would ever submit himself to an authority.

Everything he knew about the boy spoke of a certain disregard for the rules—wildness almost. It was more than his continual absences from school. It was his very being. His contrary way of speaking, his confidant swagger, the smirk and shine in his eye. Alex had always given the impression that he would do whatever he wanted, damn everyone else.

Mr. Bray had thought it would be a relief when someone finally made him back down, but now… well, it was a bit pitiful to see him caged.

"There," Alex said, throwing the mobile back to Mr. Bray. "I put myself on speed dial."

He leaned back into the chair, making it look like the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world, even though Mr. Bray had chosen it for the exact opposite reason. "What are your questions?"

Mr. Bray cleared his throat. "Well, I was never informed of what this school was being threatened by," he said, pocketing his phone so he wouldn't have to look at Rider. There was a different type of shine in his eye now, and though it remained just as playful, it wasn't nearly as pleasant as the old one.

"We're not sure," he said. "I am assuming they are after me, but I can't rule out that someone else is being targeted, even if it is extremely unlikely."

Mr. Bray cleared his throat. "And who would be after you, exactly?"

"It could be any number of people," Alex replied flippantly. "I've made a lot of enemies."

"For example?"

"Classified," he said, his voice becoming serious, "but they are not to be taken lightly."

Mr. Bray gave a grave chuckle. "Yes, because it's only a _slight_ threat if MI6 is involved."

They shared a brief smile, but the moment was gone too quickly to be appreciated by either of them.

"I didn't recognize the intruder," Alex continued, "and he wasn't wearing any distinguishing marks or symbols, so that's a dead end. Smithers has the camera we found, trying to find clues there. We should know in a few days."

"You mentioned that several bottles were taken from the lab's storage room?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, but I doubt they were stolen by the man who attacked me. He was there to install the camera, but left before he could completely finish. I think the thief walked in on him, forcing him to hide, and return when I was there to finish his job."

"How do I know that you haven't stolen those chemicals?" Mr. Bray asked, giving Alex a look, still hoping that it would turn out to be a joke.

Alex rolled his eyes. "MI6 gives me explosives on a regular basis. Why would I want to steal from the school just to get more?" He scoffed, and tapped his own phone, reminding Mr. Bray that it also functioned as a bomb. "Besides, I would never have been so sloppy."

"Fine then."

"Do you have any more questions?"

"Yes, but I can't think of them just now."

His mind was awhirl with the implications. He had yet to come to terms with all that was happening. He suddenly felt so _old._

Alex stood to go, but paused as he looked down at the weary man. "Don't worry Mr. Bray," he said, sounding more earnest and more sincere than he had ever heard him sound. "This is my school, too, remember. I won't let anything happen."

His words didn't do anything to help ease the ball of anxiety that had slowly been growing in his stomach, but somehow Mr. Bray believed him—if only a very little.

"Keep me updated, will you?" he asked, his voice somewhat squeaky.

Alex grinned. "As much as I can, sir." And he left.

…Only to come right back in again. "Oh, before I forget. The powers that be want me to inform you that they will be providing you with a new gym teacher, seeing as you have none."

The words took a moment to process. "Seeing as I…? What happened to Mr. Cox?"

"He retired to Majorca," said Alex, falsely chipper. "The doctors thought it best for his health, you know?"

"But he's been here longer than I have!" Mr. Bray exclaimed angrily.

"And look what it did to his health," he tutted. "Maybe you should think about moving, too."

And just like that, any sympathy Mr. Bray had for Alex Rider vanished.

**PAGE BREAK**

MI6 replaced the old gym teacher very quickly, and the next eight school days found Alex Rider puking his guts out over the intramural football field before the day even started. Tom, bless his misguided heart, was right there next to him, standing uselessly by his side.

As soon as Alex had told him that he had been prescribed these early morning workouts, Tom wanted to come too. Tom said it was so he could be of some use to Alex if they ever get caught in some type of situation, but Alex knew the truth: he wanted to impress the girls.

Tom was also extremely enthusiastic when it came to the SAS, so he had jumped on board when he heard an SAS would be teaching him.

In retrospect, Alex really should have seen it coming, but he didn't think that Mrs. Jones must hated him enough to have Wolf, of all people, assigned as his coach.

What had occurred at Point Blanc seemed to have been forgotten over the two years since they had last seen each other. Wolf still hated him with a passion; he wouldn't even speak to Alex unless it had to do with training—which would have been fine if he didn't get along so well with Tom.

Tom wasn't with them for the entirety of training. The first two hours were full of what had been deemed "classified tactical information", and unfit for Tom's ears. It mostly consisted of a five-kilometer warm-up run, followed by lessons in hand-to-hand combat. Really it was just an opportunity for Wolf to beat Alex mercilessly. They would spend the last half-hour talking strategy, tactics and weapon usage; this usually earned Alex gruesome descriptions of every possible way he could die. Wolf seemed to like it though.

Then, around the time that the sun was rising, Tom would join them for general strength and conditioning, and stamina training. Or rather, Tom would join Wolf in doing push-ups, sit-ups, and other basic maneuvers, while Alex was off doing whatever hellish activity Wolf had assigned him.

Hence the spewing all over the grass each day while Tom and Wolf chatted it up.

Alex tried not to feel betrayed.

"I hate you, you know that?" Alex groaned as he took the seat next to Tom in pre-calc.

"No you don't," he said happily, slapping his back, right where Wolf had kicked him with all his strength as a reminder to "never let an enemy get behind you".

"Yes, I do," he said through gritted teeth.

"Just because I think Wolf is cool, doesn't mean I agree with the way he treats you," Tom said, rolling his eyes.

Alex lifted an eyebrow. "Why don't you tell him that, then?"

"Hell no. Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Yes," he answered petulantly. "About time you figured it out."

Tom looked at him, wounded. "Well, at least wait to kill me until after I tell you about the party Oliver is having."

"I hate to break this to you, Tom, but they probably don't want me there," Alex said.

"Since when do you care?" he asked. He pointed at him accusingly. "I seem to recall a certain someone crashing Derek Johnson's unofficial graduation party—before we were even freshmen, no less!"

"Look," Alex said seriously, "it won't be any fun. At best, it'll be extremely awkward. I don't even want to think about what will happen if someone picks a fight."

"You'll be fine," he said, blowing off Alex's concerns. "You're coming whether you want to or not."

Alex laughed. "You can't make me go."

Tom quirked an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

The teacher walked in then, and tapped on the desk to get their attention. "Settle down, class," he said, sending Tom and Alex a pointed look.

Tom ignored it and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Do you remember that time you had to act as Gregory Averill's boyfriend so you could infiltrate his sex trade ring?"

"How do you know about that?" Alex asked in a horrified whisper. "That's classified information."

"You know Anna, Mrs. Jones' new secretary?" Alex nodded. "She told me."

"Does Mrs. Jones know about this?" he asked, already plotting the ways he could get Anna fired.

"Dude," Tom said, snorting in amusement. "Mrs. Jones was _there_."

Alex thought his life was bad before. With Wolf torturing him each morning and Tom conspiring with Mrs. Jones, his life had just become one hundred times worse. "Why the hell do you know Mrs. Jones?" he seethed.

"Do you really think they would let me walk around knowing what I know, and being your best friend if they didn't keep tabs on me? I thought you were supposed to be smart."

Tom's grin grew wider, and Alex knew he would not like what he was about to hear. "Sometimes I go there just for fun. Your colleagues are cool, man."

Alex groaned. "My life _can't _get worse."

"Anyway, we got off track." Tom continued, ignoring his friend's agony. "The point is, I have pictures of you pretending to be flamboyantly gay, so if you ever want another chance with a girl in London, you better come to this party."

"You're blackmailing me," he observed flatly. "I really am going to kill you one of these days."

"You should be thanking me."

"That'll never happen."

""I swear I do all the thinking," he said with a long suffering sigh. ""Think about it, man. Your job is to investigate the people in this school. How are you going to get any information if no one likes you? You need to be popular again, not some druggie freak show."

"Wow, thanks for that ego boost."

"Whatever. You know I'm right." They turned to their work, but not before he added, "You should get your head checked. I swear you used to be _smart."_

**PAGE BREAK**

Over at the Bray household, later that day, all was domestic bliss. Henry Bray hovered the sink, washing the dishes, while his wife, Ruowei, lounged in living room, sipping wine and watching reruns of her favorite sitcom. Their daughter was somewhere upstairs, doing whatever teenage girls liked doing in the privacy of her bedroom.

A commercial come on, and Ruowei muted the television so she could yell to her husband. "Henry, you know that Christmas is still a few months away, right?"

"Yes, I do. Why?" he yelled back.

"Because you might want to make your repertoire more seasonal." She said, unable to hide her chuckling, "It's a bit early for 'Jingle Bells"."

"Can't be helped, dear," he said, drying the last dish. "You know how well it fits my voice."

He walked over to the couch and sat down, pulling her feet onto his lap.

"How was work?" she asked.

"You know Brooklands," he said. "It hasn't changed much."

Lying was becoming easier, Henry noted. He almost believed it himself.

"How is the new gym teacher?" she asked. "What is his name again?"

"John Wolfe," he said, stealing a sip of her wine. "He's fine, I suppose. He certainly tires the poor buggers out."

"I bet you can appreciate that," she said, taking her glass back and holding it playfully out of his reach.

They wrestled for it for a moment, giggling when it sloshed over the sides.

"I'm glad you don't have the late shift tonight," he said. "It's about time we had a Friday night to ourselves."

She gave him a wicked grin. "That's right. I forgot Rosie was sleeping over at Rachel's."

"Speak of the devil," he said as light footsteps skipped down the stairs.

"Need a ride, Rosie?" he asked, standing up and patting his pockets for his keys.

"No thanks, Dad," she said, surprising him. "Rachel is already outside. She convinced her sister to come pick me up."

"Oh."

She shifted uncomfortably.

Despite what his students thought of him, Henry Bray was not a stupid man. He saw his daughter's heavy make up, her carefully done hair, her surprisingly heavy backpack, and he knew she wasn't going to Rachel's house for a sleepover.

Every ounce of parental instinct he had was yelling at him to swaddle her in bubble-wrap and lock her safely in a world with no edges or sharp bits. Right now, he felt more dread than he had ever experienced—and that included when he learned MI6 had an interest in his workplace.

"Rosie," he said, swallowing thickly. "Now that you're in high school, I want to give you something."

He unclipped the pager and pressed it into her hands.

"Er…" She turned it over, looking at it in bewilderment. "What is it?"

"It's a pager," he said. "I want you to use it if you are ever in trouble and can't contact your mother or me. Just press that button there," he said, pointing.

"I doubt I'll ever need to call the police," she said distastefully. _I doubt I'll ever _want_ to call the police_ remained unsaid.

"It doesn't call the police," he said. "Just promise me, please?"

She huffed and threw it into her bag. "Fine, I promise," she said, waving goodbye and traipsed out the door.

Henry knew he would get any sleep that night—and not for the reason he wanted, either.

**PAGE BREAK**

True to his word, Tom showed up that evening in his mom's old minivan to ensure there was no way for Alex to back out.

Alex was silent and broody the entire drive to Oliver's house, but in reality there was no need for Tom to go to such lengths. Alex was going to go anyway. He already knew Tom was right.

It was just… Alex was so different from everyone else he knew. Even when he was home—when he was the "normal" Alex—everyone could tell that there was something off about him. Things that were supposed to be amusing weren't, and things that made everyone sick with worry didn't give him the slightest pause.

Even Tom didn't always understand. There were things Alex couldn't talk about and things he wouldn't talk about, and these _things _inevitably decided to morph into a giant elephant whenever they were in the same room.

If he could barely talk to Tom, then what was he supposed to talk to his classmates about? He obviously couldn't talk about his summer vacations or his absences from school. He might be able to talk about his future. He could say he wanted to go to university and become a spy in a joking manner, but that was pushing it.

To make matters worse, any pop culture reference was out, as well. He had no knowledge on the matter considering he liked listening to what Jack had called "goldie oldies", and he hadn't had the time to see a movie in months.

He could talk about the news, though. He was intimately knowledgeable of world affairs, after all. Or maybe he could talk about Jeopardy. He liked Jeopardy. And the weather was always an option, he supposed.

Good God, he was screwed.

"Alex," Tom snapped, breaking the heavy silence. "Calm down. Treat it like a mission if it makes you feel any better."

Alex lifted an eyebrow, and though Tom never looked away from the road, he seemed to understand his skeptical silence.

"Just pretend these people are part of a crime syndicate and you need to profile everyone in the room."

"That's ridiculous," he scoffed.

Tom shrugged and turned into a crowded neighborhood. Alex could feel the bass pumping from their parking spot down the street. "Do whatever you want," Tom said. "We're here."

It was a typical teenage scene: the house was crowded with gyrating bodies smelling of beer and body odor. The music was deafening, and whatever conversing being done was conducted in loud voices. Every now and then someone would hop onto the dining room table to dance, or would make an attempt to swing from the chandler. Oliver looked frazzled trying to keep his house intact.

With an encouraging pat, Tom left him to his own devices. Alex moved to the corner of the room, grabbing a drink on the way. He had no intention of drinking it, but figured it might make him seem more approachable. He recognized nearly every person there, but everyone was pretty careful not to make eye contact with him.

_That'll change, _he decided. Tom was right—he did need information. Maybe treating this like a mission wasn't such a bad idea. He actually _was_ on a mission, after all.

Alex had yet to make any great breakthroughs on his case. There was very little evidence to go on, and most of the time he could spend working, he was stuck in class.

He desperately needed to network if anything was going to be achieved.

He took a deep breath. All he had to do was introduce himself and get his companion to talk about him or herself. People could talk for hours about themselves, especially teenagers—no, especially _drunk_ teenagers. If all went well, he would be able to narrow down a suspect by the end of the night.

He scanned the crowd for his first target, looking for someone who wouldn't outright reject being seen with him, but who wasn't so friendly as to never say a bad word against someone else. Right away, he excluded any girls. With his reputation the way it was, he doubted they would feel safe around him, despite whatever charm he still possessed.

But as it turned out, his first target came to him. His name was Cameron Newt, and he was Brookland's most hardcore drug user until Alex began to outshine him. He was only seventeen, but had aged so much from whatever substances he was abusing that he looked almost thirty.

"You're Alex Rider, right?" he asked, sidling alongside him. His eyes and fingers twitched spastically.

"That's right."

"I hear you're well connected," he said, his tone laden with implications. "Think you could, you know… hook me up?"

Alex eyed him shrewdly, making Cameron twitch even more in his discomfort. "Yeah, sure," he said finally. Cameron gave him a yellow smile, relaxing now that he realized Alex wasn't going to narc on him.

"But I need a favor, first," he continued slowly, leaning casually against the wall.

"Yeah, sure." Cameron nodded compliantly. "Anything."

"You wouldn't happen to know who pilfered the science wing's new supply closet, would you?" he asked, making his voice low and secretive.

Cameron shook his head.

"Because I had a stash in there that disappeared," Alex snarled, "and I am not happy."

Cameron gulped. "I have heard some things," he admitted. "But no one's fessed up to anything."

"What have you heard?"

He didn't meet his eye. "I-I'm not sure I should say."

Alex gave a sigh of displeasure. "Listen, Cameron," he said, moving to clap him on the shoulder. "You keep an ear out, and tell me what you hear," he said. "Do this for me, and I will give you part of what I make selling it."

"I don't know-"

"_And," _he continued, not letting him speak. "I won't tell my boss that we've been talking, got it?"

Cameron took a step back, nodding vigorously in agreement.

"Good." Alex gave him a friendly grin. "I'll get you what you want on Monday."

**PAGE BREAK**

The rest of the night didn't go as smoothly. He had to make overtures himself because no one else dared approach him. Apparently, people had seen him talking to Cameron Newt and had drawn the obvious conclusions.

That those conclusions were completely correct didn't help him in the slightest.

After four failed attempts (two of which had involved drunken screams of terror, and one that had backfired disastrously), Alex resigned himself to profiling people at a distance. He was surprised by how much he learned just from watching the same people in a different environment.

"Did you know that Danny Cox is cheating on his girlfriend with Cassie Erdman?" Alex asked Tom when they found each other again.

"What? No way," he said, looking around for Danny, anyway. "His girlfriend's got him totally whipped."

"It's true," he said. "She retouched her lip-gloss as soon as she saw him."

"That doesn't prove anything."

"He smells like her perfume," Alex said, smirking. "And he winks at her whenever they make eye contact."

"I can't believe this. What else have you learned?" he asked greedily.

"Ainsley is allergic to alcohol, but is pretending to be drunk so Roger thinks he has a chance. Vince has been pocketing anything he thinks he can sell to a pawnshop without suspicion. Richard isn't sick, he's bulimic, and Jessica is questioning her sexuality."

"Holy crap man," said Tom, his eyes alight. "You need to go talk to Monica."

He was referring to Monica Cooper, Brookland's gossip queen. True or untrue, Monica made it her business to know everything about everyone, and then make sure that everyone else knew it too. Her dream in life was to own a tabloid company.

"I'm not interested in making everyone's life miserable," Alex said in reply.

"You don't have to tell her everything," Tom said. "You can pick and choose, but if you give her details like that, you'll have her eating out of the palm of your hand."

"She's not that pretty, Tom," Alex said bluntly.

"Not like that, you idiot," Tom said, slapping him upside the head. "She knows more about what goes on at this school than the freaking security cameras do. You could use someone like her."

"That is actually really smart," he admitted, slapping Tom hard on the back as payback.

"Seriously, get your head checked, man," he said once he could breathe again.

"Can we go, now?" Alex asked grumpily.

"Hold on," he said, turning away. "Hey, Stephen!" he yelled, beckoning Stephen Gibson over. "Come here!"

Stephen Gibson was in their year, and had been on the football team with them before Alex had to quit. They had gotten along well, and had even hung out outside of school on occasion, but their friendship hadn't survived Alex's episode of Extreme Makeover: Spy Edition.

"Stephen, it's good to see you," Tom said. "You remember Alex, right? He's not a gangster, just so you know. And he doesn't do drugs. Or murder virgins, or eat puppies, or bathe in children's tears, or—"

"Thank you, Tom," Alex said, cutting him off quickly.

"I never thought you were any of those things," Stephen said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Brilliant," Tom said. "So you wouldn't mind coming over and helping me crush him in Super Smash Bros?"

"Er-"

"Great, see you Sunday."

Without further ado, he pulled Alex out of the house. "Now we can go," he said, looking very satisfied with himself. "I told you making friends was easy."

"I think this is more of a hostage situation than a friendship," Alex said, sliding gratefully into the passenger seat of Tom's minivan.

"You can admit that I'm right, now," Tom said, shooting him a smile as he started the car.

**A/N Thank you so much for the reviews, please keep them coming. I can't tell you how encouraging it is to get feedback.**

** Fair warning, though. Chapters won't be coming out nearly as quickly as this second one did. I have an idea of where this is going, but nothing written out. **


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

The following Monday, Henry Bray stood from his desk to make the most ill advised trip of the century. Had Ms. Bedfordshire known what he was about to do, she probably would have stopped him, but she didn't, and so she couldn't.

So Henry was now making his way down to the gym ignorant of the death knells echoing with his footsteps.

Despite the sudden chill in the air, it was promising to be a beautiful day, just as the day before had been. The sun was shining and the grass smelled like dew and mowed grass. His family had spent their Sunday together relaxing in the yard, playing with the dog and grilling out. It was a _much_-needed break.

Rosie had come back safe Saturday morning smelling of smoke and booze, but safe and whole. Henry had yet to confronted her about her behavior, and probably wouldn't until things got out of hand.

He was certain that she would grow tired of the lying and partying, just as he had. He only needed to let her feel her way around and grow up a little on her own while watching over her as best he could. Rosie was similar to how he had been at that age: quietly rebellious, saying one thing and doing the contrary. Bringing it up would only make her sneakier and harder to catch.

It greatly reassured him that she went to his school—the safest school in England, where the schoolchildren worked for the government, the janitors all had earpieces, and the gym teacher was a Colonel on leave for failing a psych evaluation.

He knocked merrily on Wolf's office door.

There was a series of crashes and cursing so violent that three teachers poked their heads into the hallway to glare disapprovingly.

"One moment, Mr. Bray," came Alex's voice from behind the door.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" he asked grumpily. If they heard him, they didn't respond.

Another minute passed before the door was pulled open. Alex slipped past him, covered in bandages and hiding a considerable amount of mirth. "He's all yours, sir," he said, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder.

Henry turned to his new gym teacher, suddenly wishing that he hadn't come at all. Wolf sat in an intimidating wingback office chair, anger written all over his face, and with a wounded, mangled arm braced against his desk.

"Was Alex stitching you up?" he cried in sudden realization.

"If you continue to speak any louder, you will be in violation of the OSA," Wolf growled. "And I will have immense pleasure in arresting you."

Henry shut the door quickly. "Why was Alex giving you stitches?" he asked, his whisper barely audible.

"Because I'm terrible at sewing with my left hand," Wolf said, flexing his wounded right arm and inspecting it carefully for any flaw.

"Shouldn't you see a doctor?"

"It's just a scratch," he said dismissively.

Henry wondered what Wolf considered a grievous wound.

"The little shit!" Wolf abruptly shouted, muttering under his breath in what sounded like French.

"Er… come again?"

"He did this on purpose! He caught me off guard," he said, a new bout of anger rising to his cheeks.

"Alex attacked you?" Henry asked, shocked.

"I was teaching him the proper way to defend against knife attacks," Wolf said. "He wasn't supposed to have one of his own until next week."

Henry realized now why Alex had been covered in bandages, and didn't feel so bad about Wolf's own injury… or Alex's for that matter. They both probably deserved it.

"How did that happen, then?" Henry asked, gesturing to the injured arm.

"He managed to take the knife from me," Wolf growled grudgingly. "Like I said, he caught me off guard."

"Pardon me saying, but you don't seem particularly fond of Alex," Henry noted, taking the seat across from Wolf.

"I hate that kid," he admitted freely. "He's manipulative, undisciplined, _untrained, _anddoesn't know the meaning of teamwork. He stands for everything I'm against."

"I understand the feeling," Henry muttered. "Life was perfectly fine until he showed up."

Wolf huffed in agreement, a smile quirking his lips. "Finally someone who understands."

"It's a rare quality," Henry agreed. "Even my wife doesn't understand. I can't tell her anything, but still," he whined. "She thinks I should take him under my wing and teach 'mold him into a proper young man'."

"That could never happen," Wolf scoffed.

"Tell me about it. He thinks he knows everything," Henry grumbled. "He might as well be a rock, he's so stubborn.

"I've run across that type before," Wolf said. "The SAS can usually break them."

"What's different about Alex, then?" Henry mused.

"He's sarcastic," Wolf said flatly.

Henry blinked in surprise. "Aren't all teenagers?" he asked slowly.

"I don't understand sarcasm," Wolf explained.

"Ah. I can see how that is an issue." Confusion crossed his face. "How on earth did you survive the military?"

Wolf gave an evil grin. "I scared the shit out of everyone I met."

"But not Alex."

"No, not him." He scowled.

Then inspiration dawned on his face. "Teach me," Wolf demanded.

It took Henry a moment to comprehend. "Sarcasm? Teach you sarcasm?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So I can break Alex Rider," he said, fire in his eyes.

Henry's mind flashed back to that moment in his office—the only time he had ever felt pity for Alex Rider. He was already caged; did Henry really want to see him broken, too?

But then again, the request was a ridiculous one, unlikely to do much harm. Perhaps it would even help Alex if Wolf could understand him better. Just don't ask him how.

"Alright," he agreed halfheartedly.

"Great," he said, pulling out a pen and notepad. Wolf looked at him expectantly.

"What, now?" Henry asked.

"You don't have anything else to do." It wasn't a question.

"Alright," he said again. Henry cleared his throat. "Sarcasm is saying something in such a way as to imply that you mean the exact opposite."

"I know that," Wolf said impatiently. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

"And here I was thinking you were a genius," Henry said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Wolf gave him an odd look. "That was sarcasm," he clarified.

"Are you calling me stupid?"

Henry sighed. It was going to be a long day.

**PAGE BREAK**

Alex, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Alex, Tom, and Stephen Gibson had spent all day yesterday playing video games at Tom's house. Not only had he managed to convince Stephen Gibson that he wasn't a psychopath, but he had also found the time to slip away and burn all blackmail material Tom had accumulated over the years.

Then today, he had finally gotten back at Wolf for all the undue pain he had inflicted on him. The look on his face was going to be worth the inevitable hell of the next few training sessions. He was so enraged that he looked like he was going to burst a vessel.

And now, the sweetest moment of all. He was eating with Tom and his friends, for once. They were carefully ignoring Alex, but were doing their job nonetheless. Tom had turned away, distracted by the conversation around him, and Alex had taken the opportunity to dump half the bottle of Smither's truth serum into Tom's soda. He drained half the can before choking and twisting his face into a disgusted expression.

"Who dumped hand sanitizer in my drink?"

Everyone chortled. Alex leaned back, satisfied, and waited.

Unfortunately, it didn't have the desired effect, but Alex still got his revenge. Tom turned an unnatural shade of green and vomited on Lisa Frazier's lap.

Ah, well. He would take what he could get.

Several of the boys burst into laughter, Lisa burst into furious tears. Tom had jumped up and was running to the bathroom.

"Is he ok?" someone asked.

"He'll be fine," Alex said, standing to follow him to the bathroom. At least he _thought_ Tom would be fine. He should probably take him to Smithers just in case there was a weird side effect.

The important thing, Alex reminded himself, was that Tom wouldn't be living this down for at least another couple of weeks.

No one blackmails Alex Rider and gets away with it.

Tom had continued his retching into one of the unsavory toilets when Alex found him in the nearest bathroom.

Cameron Newt had looked up languidly when they had entered, and nodded in greeting to them both. Alex wasn't surprised to see him here. Cameron liked to haunt the bathrooms. They didn't have security cameras, and generally had good ventilation, so it was easy to get away with smoking. He didn't seem concerned that Alex was here, or that Tom sounded like he was trying to spit out his organs; he just sat on the upturned wastebasket and blew smoke out the window.

"Is he alright?" he asked.

"Yeah. He just overdid it a little," Alex said, nodding to the joint in Cameron's hand.

"He's new at this, huh?" Cameron asked listlessly.

Alex held in his smirk. Rumors would be _flying_ tomorrow. And for once they would not be about him.

He knew he should probably feel bad about doing this, but he didn't. No one would believe the rumors, anyway. Tom was well known for being the fun, nice, straight-laced guy who was still somehow cool.

_Everyone_ liked him. No one would listen to what Cameron Newt, of all people, had to say about him. Besides, he had been complaining about the weird-tasting milk all week. No one was going to jump to conclusions about _why_ he was sick, just that he _was_ sick. All over Lisa Frazier, no less.

"He'll get the hang of it," he said.

"So, do you have it?" Cameron asked bluntly, forgoing the pleasantries.

Alex nodded and made a show of looking around before dipping his hand deep into his backpack. He pulled out a bag of fine white powder, and slipped it covertly into Cameron's hand.

Cameron opened it, gave a small sniff, and dipped a finger in to feel the texture.

"I've never seen something like this before," he said suspiciously.

"I told you it's new, didn't I?" Alex tutted at his stupidity. "It's a sodium bicarbonate—Don't do that, you idiot!"

Cameron's finger stopped midway to his mouth. "This stuff can be really nasty. You need to bake it first. You know, in chocolate chip cookies or something."

Cameron dusted his hands off on his pants sheepishly. "Right. Thanks." He wrapped the bag in his jacket and placed it carefully at the bottom of his backpack.

He went back to smoking his joint.

"You have something you need to tell me," Alex reminded him.

"Now?" Cameron asked, his eyes cutting to Tom nervously. He had stopped vomiting and was groaning miserably over the toilets.

"He's with me," Alex said, not sparing his best friend a glance. He thought he might start laughing at the poor bloke.

Cameron shifted nervously, and then spoke so low that Alex had to stop breathing to hear him.

"Rachel Fairchild."

Alex lifted an eyebrow in his skepticism. Rachel was a quiet girl, and very sweet. She was one of those freshmen that no one minded or paid any special attention to. She spent most of her time with her friends on the tennis team, and at practice. She was a good player, and had won the team some fame in the short time she'd been there. In fact, she probably would have been a lot more popular if her best friend hadn't been the headmaster's daughter, but they did everything together.

Overall, she was a well-rounded young woman with a bright future and a good head on her shoulders.

So why would she want to steal from the chemistry supply closet? It didn't make sense. Maybe he had misheard, or Cameron misspoke.

"So you're saying that Patrick Fairchild—" he attempted.

"No, no." Cameron cut him off, already forgetting to whisper. "I said Rachel Fairchild. _Rachel."_

"You're friends with Patrick," Alex noted. "Are you sure you're not trying to protect him?"

"If we were friends, I wouldn't be ratting his sister out, now would I?" Cameron snapped. "We smoke together sometimes, sure, but only once or twice a year—usually around exams.

"I think he confided in me because he knew I would never go to the police," Cameron admitted.

"What did he tell you?" Alex asked.

"He was freaking out because his little sister wanted to kill someone," he said. "And not just like—" his voice raised an octave—"'OMG he didn't notice my new Jimmy Choo's; I want to kill him' type of kill. It was legit. She planned it out and everything."

Alex still couldn't see it, but maybe someone had put her up to it. Maybe she was desperate. It was always possible, even if he hadn't seen any of the usual signs.

"What's she planning?"

"Hell if I know," Cameron said, taking another drag to calm his nerves. "You mentioned the missing chemicals, so I thought it might be connected."

Alex nodded. "It's worth looking into, at least."

"I just hope she isn't planning to kill me," Cameron said, twitching anxiously. "I'm not cut out for this type of shit."

"I wouldn't worry about anyone trying to kill you," Alex said, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. "Keep this up, and you'll probably kill yourself in five or so years."

Cameron gave him an apathetic glare. "Whatever. At least I'll go out like a rock star."

"You might want to learn to play guitar, then."

"I've been thinking of taking drum lessons," he admitted.

"Let me know when your first performance is," Alex said with a grin. He glanced at Tom, who was suspiciously quiet in the background. "I'd better get him to the nurse's office."

"Right. Well, see ya." Cameron turned to watch whatever was out the window, and Alex tugged Tom from the bathroom.

"I can't believe you actually sold him drugs," Tom hissed as soon as the door swung closed. "You crossed the line. You're so far across the line that you might as well be in China. I've been to China, you know. Don't particularly want to go back, though. Too big for my tastes. Peru on the other hand—I wouldn't mind going there. I've always wanted to go see Machu Pikachu. Jerry says that's the only place you can find them nowadays."

_Looks like the truth serum was working after all_, Alex thought, resisting the urge to cackle.

"Find what, nowadays?" Alex asked, amusedly.

"Pikachus, duh. The place was named after them, stupid."

"Right. How could I have forgotten?"

"It's because you took too many blows to the head," Tom said seriously. "Hey, where are we going? I though we were going to the nurse. I heard you tell Cameron."

They had passed the turn for the infirmary, heading instead for the back door leading to the parking lot.

At the thought of Cameron, Tom became indignant again. "I can't believe you sold drugs to Cameron," he chided. "You're not above the law, Alex. You might work for a super secret organization, but that doesn't mean you can _turn into_ that super secret organization."

"We're going to the bank," Alex said, ignoring the last bit of his speech. "I think the nurse might be a little out of her depth here."

"What makes you say that?" Tom asked as they turned down the aisle where Alex had parked.

"I may or may not have fed you truth serum," he said, absently searching for his keys.

"Why am I your friend again?" Tom asked. He wasn't even surprised.

"Because I'm cool and you like me—aha!" He pulled his keys out from under his history textbook.

_I should really keep these in my pocket in case I need a quick get away,_ he thought, clicking the button that would unlock his car for him.

"That's true when you're not being a complete asswad," Tom grumbled. "No one's going to look at me the same. I spewed all over Lisa f-ing Frazier for Christ's sake! She's the head cheerleader, in case you didn't kno—oomph"

Alex's car went up in flames.

**A/N Lord have mercy, this was a pain in the ass to write. It's one of those needed, but hated, transition chapters, and it's still feels a little unrefined. Oh well. At least the action is starting. **

**Also, 10 points to whoever can tell me the drug Alex gave Cameron. It cracked me up while I was writing. **

**And I know that the whole thing with Wolf might seem a little ridiculous, but I couldn't help myself. Besides, everyone in the Alex Rider universe is a little unhinged; I'm just exploiting it.**

**Shout out to wchristank, my first reviewer, and ****jayleneolebar3, Svren, and Armand for the following reviews. You guys are give me strength to defeat writers block and forge on!**

**Anyway, Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think. **


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

The phone range twice before being answered.

"Royal and General Bank, how may we be of service?"

"This is 616, patch me through to Jones." There was a pause, then: "Rutabagas only grow where the sun don't shine."

"Indeed. I'll put you through right away."

_Click. _"This is Jones."

"Who the hell came up with this week's passcode?"

"I believe it was Feigenbaum's turn," Jones said passively. "What do you want, Alex?"

"My car exploded," he said.

"Not again," Mrs. Jones sighed. "Alex, this is the eighth time this year."

"It's not my fault I'm so popular with the psychopaths," he grumbled.

"Were you near the car?" she asked. "Do I need to send paramedics?" He could hear the rustle of paperwork as she found the forms needed for this latest debacle.

"No," Alex said. "I was about fifty meters away. I used the keys to start the engine."

"Well, I'm glad you observe some of the procedures we attempted to cram into that hard head of yours."

"Seven exploding cars will do that to you, I suppose," Alex replied. "Could you send someone to pick up Tom and me? I need to talk to Smithers."

"Robinson is on his way," she said. "He's not going to be very happy with you," she warned.

"Right," he said, but she had already hung up.

He turned to Tom, who was watching Alex's car, and the cars surrounding it, smolder.

"That's fucking beautiful," he said, eyes wide as saucers. "I've never seen a Bentley burn before."

"You still haven't seen a Bentley burn," Alex said, dialing the number for the fire department. "That was a Camry, mate."

Tom nodded, but his words didn't seem to register. "The whole parking lot is going to go up in flames," Tom whispered in awe. "I should have brought my camera. And marshmallows."

"The fire department is just around the corner, Tom," Alex pointed out. "I don't think it'll spread to the entire parking lot."

He looked a little put out by this revelation. "I think I'm a pyro," Tom confessed.

"I think that truth serum addled your brains," Alex responded. Sirens wailed in the background "Smithers will sort you out. Lets get out of here before people start asking questions."

They ducked behind another row of cars, walking quickly to the front of building where the campus met the main road. Fire trucks flew past them, and every window had students and faculty cramped together for a view. Luckily, however, very few people got a glimpse of them fleeing the scene. An official black car was idling in the kiss-and-ride, and sped off as soon as their feet had hit the floor.

"How are you today, Robinson?" Alex asked.

Robinson grunted in acknowledgment, but that was all. They used to be on pretty good terms, but to the car-obsessed chauffeur, killing eight cars was an unforgivable sin. He hadn't said more than for words to Alex since the time his car had gotten crushed by a semi and thrown into the Caspian Sea.

Luckily, the drive was a short one, and they arrived at Royal & General Bank with only minimum discomfort.

The staff ushered him right through to the elevator, and soon he and Tom were being received by a very jolly Smithers.

"Alex, my boy! How lovely to see you," he said, pulling up chairs for his two guests. "And Tom, too. Well, if it isn't my lucky day. What brings you here?"

Alex rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, you see, I may have spiked Tom's drink with your special hand sanitizer."

Smithers blinked in surprise, suddenly serious. "How much did you put in? Two drops, three?"

"Er… half the bottle?"

"Tossed it back up, did he?" Smithers asked, looking Tom over.

"Yeah," Alex replied lamely.

"I'll have the boys in the lab look him over," he said, leading Tom through a door Alex had never been through. It clicked shut before Alex could get a glimpse of anything other than a white blur.

Smithers reappeared moments later. "Was it worth it?" he asked, hands on his hips and looking over his glasses in disapproval. Alex suddenly felt about five years old and three inches tall.

"Um, well—"

"If I had known my inventions would be used for such devious means," Smithers said, "I would have helped you out."

"I'm sorry. I know it was—wait, what?"

"I love practical jokes," he said, showing Alex a smile. "Why, my finest creation is my Eternal Itching Powder. It won't come off unless given the counteragent. Oh, I know it doesn't sound like much, but it was a finicky little bugger. Had to get the composition just right or it would eat the skin right off."

"I would hate to be on the receiving end of that," Alex said, a wicked grin crossing his face.

"Oh yes," Smithers agreed distantly. "My brother scratched himself so much, he drew blood. The itching power entered his bloodstream. It was a nasty business," Smithers chuckled.

"It turned out alright in the end," he continued, "but I would prefer it if you asked me before abusing my gadgets. It might have unintended consequences."

Alex's smile faded. He didn't hang his head, but he could feel his cheeks burning.

"It's easy to forget that you're still young, old bean," Smithers said, patting his head. Alex scowled and pushed his hair back into place. "You're going to do stupid things—all teenagers do, but no other teenager has the resources or responsibilities you do. Be careful, will you?"

"I will," he promised quickly. "Will Tom be alright?"

"He'll be right as rain come tomorrow," Smithers reassured. "The stuff you fed him was nothing toxic, though I'm sure his ego will have taken a bruising. You might want to watch your back," Smithers said with a wink.

"What, from Tom?"

"Oh yes," Smithers said, nodding sagely. "He may not be as smart or as sneaky as you, but he is clever and has balls of steel."

"Yeah." Alex laughed and nodded in agreement. "But what makes you say that?" Alex asked.

"He came in here one day, demanded to see Jones, and yelled at her for half an hour straight," Smithers said, turning back to fiddle with some wires on his desk. "Half the building could hear him. It was a sight to see. He told her she had no business using you like they do, and if she thought that you were alone and no one would care, then she was sorely mistaken."

"I never heard about this," Alex said, scrutinizing his shoelaces. "When did this happen?"

"It was around eight months ago," Smithers said. He paused before adding, "You were in a coma at the time."

"Oh." Alex shifted uncomfortably. That was still a touchy subject.

"You have a good friend in that one."

"I know." Alex sighed.

For a while it was quiet, only the rustle of movement and crackle of electricity filling the silence.

"Well," Smithers said, slapping his thighs and standing up. "Enough of this. Would you like to stay for lunch? I'm ordering pizza."

"Sure," Alex said. He didn't mention that he had already eaten. Tom would undoubtedly be hungry, and Alex wasn't too keen on returning to school. Mr. Bray would probably blow a gasket.

"So," Alex said after Smithers had phoned the pizza place. "Will you be working on my new car?"

This caused Smithers to laugh. "Alex, my boy," he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "Do you really think you will be getting another car?"

"Why wouldn't I be getting another car?"

"There's no room in the budget," Smithers said. "And it's been deemed unsafe for you."

"Unsafe?" Alex huffed, "I'm a great driver!"

Smithers looked at him incredulously. "You do realize this is the eighth time you've destroyed a car?"

"_I _haven't destroyed any of my cars," Alex argued. "They've been destroyed for me."

"Nevertheless, it's a pattern hazardous to your health," he said. "If you want a car, you'll have to buy one yourself. Cheer up; you'll be getting your old bike back. That's nice, isn't it?"

Alex grumbled in annoyance. Although MI6 was paying him for his services now, he couldn't yet access the trust fund they had set up in his name. MI6 was his legal guardian; they had control over his bank account to keep him from "making stupid financial decisions", as they called it.

This basically meant MI6 had hired an accountant to pay his bills and taxes for him; and while he was grateful that he didn't have to worry about those things quite yet, it was times like these that made him wish they weren't so considerate.

"Alex," Smithers said, getting Alex's attention again. "I want to tell you something before Tom comes back."

Smithers' voice was low and gruff, and Alex felt his stomach sink into the area between his toes.

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure Jones wants me to tell you, but I think you should know," Smithers continued, shifting nervously so his belly jiggled in his discomfort.

"What is it?" Alex prompted.

"We've identified the origin of the camera you found at school," he said. "It belongs to an organization I believe you're familiar with."

Alex felt his mouth go dry as his worst fears were confirmed.

"Silent Plague."

**PAGE BREAK**

Henry Bray was starting to see a pattern. No matter how his day had started out, it would inevitably get worse.

Take today for example. It had begun as happy as a Monday could afford, but by first period he had sympathized and made friends with a man hell-bent on making a kid's life miserable.

Just because he'd been trying to find a drinking buddy for a few years (clearly to no avail) didn't mean he didn't have standards. He wasn't about to spend more time than he had to with that man.

And then, the cherry on top of it all: car had exploded in the students' parking lot. And it didn't take a genius to figure out whose car it was either. The glares Wolf and a man in a fancy black suit shot him when the cops showed up were more than enough to keep his lips tightly sealed.

_I didn't notice anything, _he had said. _It was just a normal day here. _

He'd never lied to the authorities before, and he found it much easier to lie to his wife. At home, he could almost believe the sweet stories of normalcy he spun for her. Here, in front of the charred remains of a superspy's car and with the steely eyes of the law looking down on him, Henry nearly swallowed his tongue with all his blubbering.

_It was just a normal day, _he kept repeating. But Henry _had_ seen something suspicious that day: Stephen Gibson had skipped gym. He had gym third period, and hadn't missed a class in three years— , the old gym teacher, had raved about Stephen. His enthusiasm, his fitness, his skill—all was to be commended. He was basically the perfect model of how teenage boys should be. And so when Henry had seen him wandering the hall, he let it go and didn't force him to return to class; Wolf was a very, _very_ scary man, after all.

Students skipped class all the time, and he probably wouldn't have paid much attention to the matter if that car hadn't exploded. Now everything out of the ordinary was a potential clue.

Stephen skipping gym was the most glaring abnormality, but there were other smaller things. Mrs. Mulchay had forgotten her lunch and went off campus to a local restaurant instead; Monica Cooper hadn't been sent to his office for gossiping during class; Mr. Fields had stopped by to ask about the condition of the science wing.

This was particularly strange. Mr. Fields always made Henry feel small and stupid, but didn't go out of his way to talk to him. He _loathed _Henry. Henry never found out why.

Alex had left for the day. It was understandable, considering he had work to do at MI6, but greatly inconvenient for Henry. He wouldn't be able to question the boy until tomorrow, and there was no way in hell he was spending more time with Wolf than he had to. If he wanted answers, it seemed he would have to go find them himself.

Mind made up, Henry quickly navigated the student database, looking for Stephen's schedule. The day was almost over, which suited Henry just fine. Stephen probably wouldn't want to plot dastardly deeds in class anyway.

Henry stood up, straightened his jacket, and hustled over to Stephen's seventh period class, standing a little ways back when he got there early. Three minutes were left during the school day, and the hallways would soon be flooded with students pushing their way out the doors.

It would be the perfect cover. Henry was not a very tall man, so even among schoolchildren, he wouldn't stick out. If he followed Stephen at a short distance, he wouldn't even notice Henry in the crowd.

Stephen was one last to come out, and quickly got swallowed by the swarm. As Henry had predicted, he never realized that he was being tailed, and led them out the side door to the boys' locker room.

After a moment, Henry inched open the locker room door and slipped through. The locker room was large and echoey, and smelled like sweat and cheap aerosol deodorant. He tiptoed along the wall, trying as best he could to muffle his footsteps. He could already hear the football team's lowered voiced.

Hesitating only slightly, Henry opened one of the lockers on the wall separating him and the boys, and after gently moving something that used to be a sock out of the way, forced himself inside the locker. It was eerily reminiscent of his own high school days, except now he had to suck in his beer belly to fit. Making sure there was a crack in the door so he could easily get out, Henry pressed his ear to the wall.

Making himself small and quiet as he possibly could, his heart began pounding as he tried to make out what they were saying. He was hidden behind a wall of sheet metal and plaster, but he had little doubt these obstacles were a big match for a murderer's paranoia. Henry was sure that they could hear his heart pounding.

"...something else," one of the boys said. "Alex would kill us before we could even try."

"We'd be in a group," Stephen said. "He couldn't win against the whole football team."

"And what do we do once we get him alone?" asked a nasally voice. "Threaten him at gunpoint?"

"No, you idiot," Stephen hissed. "We _take him out."_

_Oh God. _Henry was starting to sweat profusely now. If his knees shook anymore, the entire structure would begin vibrating. _They are planning to kill Alex._

"I like it," said another. Henry held his breath to keep from hyperventilating. "If it works out, we'll have one less problem to worry about, not to mention the benefits it'll bring for our team."

"I guess."

"So we're doing it?"

"Definitely. After school tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Lockers were shutting now, and Henry tried to no avail to maneuver himself so he could reach his phone without alerting them to his presence. The space was too small, and his arms were pinned awkwardly around him.

"How long does it take you to change, Michael?" someone snapped.

"About as long as it takes for you to come to a decision," he fired back. But the last door clicked closed, and cleats echoed their way past him.

After waiting an eternity for them to leave, Henry pushed himself out from the locker, and made a mad dash to his car.

His heart had begun calming as it became clearer what he had to do. He had to get to a safe place and call Alex. Mrs. Jones had said he would be able to get back up if the situation called for it, and there was little doubt in Henry's mind that a team of murderous footballers called for desperate action.

He relaxed further when he saw the pseudo-janitors in the faculty parking lot. They hadn't spoken very often, but Henry made a point of smiling and making them feel welcomed. There were three in total. He didn't know their names, but had dubbed them Grumpy, Sleepy, and Sweetie based on the little he knew of their personalities.

Figuring they might be able to help, he waved and walked over to say hello. As he came closer, however, the scene in front of him became much more curious.

"What are you doing with that burnt car?" he asked, realizing much too late how stupid he'd been.

"We're destroying evidence," Grumpy said stoically, kicking the blackened frame of Alex's car for emphasis.

"W-why would you want to do that?" he asked, taking a step back.

They looked at him as though he'd lost his head. "Why do you think?" he sneered.

"It would be very troublesome if anyone started asking questions," said Sleepy with a yawn.

"I-yes… I can understand that," Henry managed. He didn't dare ask _why _it would be troublesome. He knew already.

Wolf openly admitted that he wanted Alex dead. These three must be in league with him. If they had been working for Jones, wouldn't she want the salvageable parts to use in other supercars? It would certainly save a heap of money, and if he knew anything about the government, it was they were stingy. They had given him a _pager_ for Heaven's sake.

"Well," he said, slowly making his way around them toward his car. They had broken down the metal and loaded it into large plastic containers, bottles of very strong acid ready in their hands. "I've decided to go home early, so…"

"Good for you," said Sweetie. "Did Rosie take the bus home today?"

"Oh God, _Rosie!"_

Henry turned tail and ran back to the school building. _I forgot about my own daughter,_ he lamented shamefully. He wouldn't be able to look at his "Best Dad Ever" mug, let alone drink out of it for weeks after this.

As he tore past the teachers' lounge, Mrs. Mulchay called out to him, and he stopped when she caught up to him. He tried to appear calm.

"What's the rush, Mr. Bray?" she asked, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the center of the gaggle of gossiping ladies. "Give us the scoop," she said, nudging him in the side.

"W-what scoop?" he asked, slightly out of breath, and still very scared.

"That was Alex Rider's car that burned down, wasn't it?" she prompted.

"Where'd you hear that?" he asked suspiciously. Nothing had been released yet, and the parking lot was too far from the building to see such details from the window.

"That's just what's been going around," she said airily.

"Pardon me for saying," Ms. Carter piped in daintily. "But I certainly wouldn't have minded if Mr. Rider had been in it when it blew."

"Daisy! Don't say such things." Mrs. Mulchay gasped, but not in outrage. Her eyes cut to Mr. Bray in a very clear warning to stay quiet.

"Oh, poo," she said dismissively. "He was probably thinking the same thing."

Miss Hudson put a restraining hand on Ms. Carter's shoulder. "What she means to say, Mr. Bray, is that it is such a shame how Alex Rider is corrupting our children."

"Yes, Mr. Bray," Ms. Carter said. "If you don't do something about him, we will feel no scruples in taking matters into our own hands. This has gone on far too long."

They all nodded in agreement, and looked at him expectantly. Henry's eyes were so wide and unblinking that they were going dry. Blood coursed loudly through his ears and every nerve in his body was yelling at him to flee.

He'd always been more on the "flight" side of the sympathetic nervous system spectrum.

"Well, Mr. Bray?"

"Oh. Right. Er, yes," he said, and dashed out the door.

He finally made it to the library unhindered. Rosie, who was sitting at her usual table by the heater, doing homework, looked up when she heard the door open loudly and the heavy footfalls of her father.

She stood up at seeing her father's panic. "Dad, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice already thick with worry.

"Never mind that," he said, grabbing her papers and stuffing them in her book bag. "We're leaving early today."

"But what about Rachel?" she asked, rushing to grab her jacket and scarf. "Tennis practice doesn't end for another hour."

"I'll call her mother to come pick her up," he said, pulling her from the room.

They reached his car in record time—the janitors had already cleared the area somehow, and he peeled out of the campus like a man possessed, slowing down only when the school was well out of sight.

He sighed as his heart began to recover, and cracked the window to help himself cool down.

"Er… Dad?" Rosie's voice was small and her eyes watching him fearfully.

He cleared his throat to regain some of his composure. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm just really stressed out," he explained soothingly. "It'll be much better once we're home and I can relax."

"Oh," she said, a bit relieved. She bit her lip, deliberating about her next question. "So this has nothing to do with what some of the girls are planning."

"What are they planning?" Henry asked, happy to hear some _normal_ teenage troubles.

"I overheard Monica gossiping in the bathroom today," she explained, hesitantly. "She said some of the sophomore girls are planning a murder."

"What?!" Henry almost swerved off the road.

**PAGE BREAK**

"_Hi you've reached Alex Rider. I'm out saving the world at the moment, so please leave your name and number and I'll call you back."_

"_At the tone, please record your message. BEEP."_

"Alex, this is Henry Bray. I know who's trying to kill you. Everyone. Er, well. Everyone is trying to kill you, that is. That's all. Have a good evening."

_Click_

**PAGE BREAK**

Back at the Rider residence, a shattered mug sat steeping in the tea he made not five minutes before. Alex had thrown it in a fit of fury, and it had been reduced to something slightly bigger than powder. Even more remarkable was Alex's fist, which was now embedded in the wall. It was shaking so hard that plaster kept falling off even after the initial punch. It smarted with pain, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Somewhere beyond the fury and fear, he was quite impressed with his strength; as demeaning and grueling Wolf's training regime was, Alex couldn't deny the results.

But this was a fleeting thought. _How dare they, _was his only real coherent thought. It repeated over and over in his mind like a mantra, anger growing with every second. The Silent Plague had been the one to drag him back into this life of constant violence, and they had done it in the most unforgivable way.

As peaceful, bright, and _good_ his summer with the Pleasures had been, it would always be blighted with the worst memories of his lifetime.

Nothing could quite compare to the horror he experienced in knowing that Sabina was missing. Or the fear that struck his heart as blood and gore dripped down her beautiful face. Or in seeing the eyes, once so vibrant with life, now dull, red, and void of life. She looked like a different person—she _was_ a different person, and no matter how little he tried to think of it, his nightmares were full of what could have possibly happened to her, though he'd never really know.

She didn't like to talk about it.

And he had walked out a different person, too.

What they had done to him when he had been captured couldn't quite compare to what she had been put through. Some broken bones, a few new scars and missing fingernails—this was all par the course for Alex Rider.

But it was what their actions had inspired in him caused him more fear than any assassin or terrorist organization had ever been able to muster.

Alex Rider _hated_ them. He hated them so deeply and so passionately, that for a while the Silent Plague had been all he could think of. Hunting down their members, taking them out one by one. He used to fantasize of ways he could taunt and torture them until they reached madness—until they begged for mother and for death.

In the short span of two weeks, everything Scorpia had imagined he could become came into fruition; and even knowing that he was becoming the very monsters that he hated and hunted, Alex couldn't make himself care.

He knew that if he ever saw one of their faces, he would strike them down.

Hate... and guilt so tremendous his knees almost buckled every time he so much as thought about the Pleasures.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

His erratic heartbeat had slowed, and his anger cooled down to the ever-present simmer, and he was left with several conundrums.

How was he going to draw out the Silent plague? He didn't have much information on them, despite his previous dealings with the organization. He didn't know their ideals or goals; he had no clue on what, if any, attacks they had organized in the past. Hell, he didn't even know why they had targeted him in the first place.

Some research was definitely in order—probably of the illegal kind if they were as dangerous as he believed them to be.

Alex also needed a way to keep his friends (ok, _friend) _out of their clutches. Tom might have sweet talked every girl in Brooklands, but there was no way he would be able to get himself out of a hostage situation armed with only his silver tongue. He needed a trump card.

Preferably, though he would never end up in a situation where that was needed. Alex would have to talk to Mrs. Jones about stepping up security around his house, and to Tom about staying away from him for a while.

And he couldn't forget about the clusterfuck that was his school life right now. What business did Rachel Fairchild have bombing his car? He hadn't spoken two words to the freshman girl in his life. Was she somehow connected to the Silent Plague? He couldn't exactly see them entrusting a teenager with a matter as delicate as killing him. They should have known it would have drawn attention to their operations in his school—something they would have wanted to keep as clandestine as possible.

But then again, if MI6 weren't above using children to do their dirty work, then criminal organizations surely wouldn't be either.

It was just the beginning of all that needed to be done, but Alex didn't care. It would all lead to the annihilation of the Silent Plague. All his dreams of vengeance would be realized, and that was all that really mattered.

...But first he needed to somehow get his hand out of the wall.

**A/N I forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but school is gearing up at the moment; that's why chapter 3 was so short. I figured you'd like more frequent updates than long chapters, but I'll try to make them a little more consistent from now on. 2 tests and 3 papers down, about 100 to go.**

**Another point I should make: I know there are a lot of OC's, but I promise that (despite their numbers) they don't play a very large role in the story.**

**Lastly, yes! The "drug" Alex gave Cameron was baking soda. I can't imagine Cameron will be too happy with that if he ever finds out, haha.  
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	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

Tom was absent from school the next day. MI6 had insisted he stay the day for continued observation. They were afraid he would be compelled to spill more than one state secret, so he was spending the day with Smithers and his team.

Alex wasn't complaining; he had things to do. The day had started out interesting and was getting even more so as the hours waxed on.

In first period pre-calc, Margie Cutler had tried to stab him in the eye with a pencil. She had tripped over his book bag and was very apologetic afterwards. It was clumsy and easily deflected, so he had written it off as an accident.

Besides, he figured she was entitled to some hatred toward him. The last time they had spoken had been at Oliver's party. She had smiled at him and offered him a sip of her beer. It would probably all have been well and good if he hadn't recommended a prenatal nurse to her as his opening line.

In hindsight, he realized he could have handled that much more delicately, but what was he supposed to do when he saw a girl who was searching the fridge for anchovies and jam, with swollen feet and a cup of beer in hand?

Tom had roared with laughter when he heard the story, and asked him how he knew a prenatal nurse, anyway. Alex didn't feel he was entitled to that secret.

First period had been al but forgotten when third period gym came along.

Wolf started the class of like normal: lining the students up at attention and yelling at them until someone cried. Usually it was Kate Trapper, an aspiring actress with a pretty face. This usually was enough to make Wolf feel a bit guilty, and he would offer her an easy question later on to boost her spirits.

After Kate had fixed her eye makeup a little bit, Wolf went on to tell them what they'd be doing. Seeing how they were in the weight room, it was pretty obvious.

"Over the next few months, this class will be using the weight machines several times a week. While it is often overlooked for more glamorous types of physical activity like sports or cardio—" he spat it out like it left a nasty taste in his mouth "—strength training is essential to any lifestyle. Not only does it promote bone growth, but develops fast twitch muscles. You!" He came to stand in front of Josh Klinger. "Tell me what fast twitch muscles do."

Josh paled and looked at Wolf's nose, which had come very close to Josh's own. His eyes crossed.

"They, er, twitch very quickly?" he tried. Wolf continued glaring. "Sir!" Josh added in a panic. "They twitch very quickly, _sir_!"

Another minute passed in which Josh sweated nervously and no one dared speak. "Correct," Wolf said, causing a wave to ripple down the line as everyone exhaled in relief.

"Fast twitch muscles fibers do not require the presence of oxygen, and are therefore used in short, high intensity exercise. You! Give me an example of high intensity exercise." He pointed to Kate Trapper. Alex was convinced he hadn't learned a single of his students' names. Or the faculty's for that matter. The poll was still out on his own family—those that he hadn't killed, that was.

"I suppose press ups and sit ups are pretty hard."

"Right. But say you were running from an enemy—" Alex coughed meaningfully "—like a bear or an older sibling. That first burst of speed that separates you from your enemy is the cause of those fast twitch muscles. The more you have, the more distance you can put between the two of you, the better chance you have of livin—I mean getting away. Now get to it! I want a three centimeter muscle increase by the end of class."

"But that's impossible!" someone yelled. Wolf glowered. "Sir," he added meekly.

"False," he growled, and gave them an evil grin. "Why, Rider here did it not two weeks ago. And he'll do it again today, right little boy?" he sneered, jabbing Alex in the chest for emphasis.

"I can get much bigger than that, big boy," Alex said with a saucy wink. There was a shocked silence from his classmates and then some nervous titters. Wolf backed up instantly, and began threatening him with death.

Alex didn't bother hiding his laughter. He had recently learned flirtation in any form deeply unsettled Wolf. Just last week, Ms. Carter, an English teacher, had baked him a cake with "Be Mine" written on the top in chocolate frosting. Wolf had paled, growled something unintelligible, and purposefully upset the cake on the poor woman's new blouse. He then proceeded to try to help her clean it off, earning him a smart smack on the cheek.

When Alex messed with him, Wolf would either beat him mercilessly if they were alone, or yell at him if they weren't. It was fun either way; Wolf got so angry that he forgot how to string words together, let alone fight properly.

But ten minutes later, Alex was regretting pushing Wolf's buttons. The man was avoiding him (something quite remarkable considering the limited room), and Vince O'Reilly was trying to crush his trachea with the barbell.

This was a rather precarious situation. Alex could bench press a fair amount of weight, but his arms were beginning to shake under the added pressure of a murderous lunatic. And since Vince was standing behind his head, he was completely out of reach. Alex couldn't even see him, let alone kick him.

"You're doing this all wrong you know," Alex gasped out. "When you're spotting someone, you're supposed to pull, not push."

"Shut up, Rider," Vince returned, leaning into the bar a little more.

"I can see how it's confusing, really," Alex continued. "Just be glad you're not pregnant. That poor little bugger would never see the light of day."

"I'm not a girl, arsehole," he hissed. The bar inched closer.

"That's not what Felix thought," he said. "You should hear him brag—omph."

Vince roared and threw all his body weight behind the bar, his angry red face appearing at last in front of Alex's. Mustering all the breath he could, Alex spat right into his eye. Vince reeled backward, and the bar nearly flew up into the air with the force generated between them, gaining the attention of everyone in the room when it resounded whit a deafening boom. Alex regained his balance and quickly spun around in a fighting stance.

Now that he was standing, Vince didn't look nearly as confident or angry, just small and scared. He was a good deal shorter than Alex already, but with his shoulders hunched in like that, he looked absolutely miniscule. Spittle still sat under his wide, confused eyes.

Alex ran a hand through his hair and growled in frustration. "Come on, Vince," he said, grabbing the boy by his collar so he didn't have any choice but to follow. "We're going to have a chat."

Vince struggled and made a racket, but sadly enough, no one moved to help him—not even Wolf.

He led them outside to the bleachers and sat them down. It was cold and windy out, and the metal seats made him colder still, but it helped to clear his mind.

"Who are you working for?" he asked without preamble. His fingers curled tighter around Vince's shirt, tearing it. _So help him God, if he said—_

"No one," Vince whimpered.

Alex squinted at him suspiciously. "Then why would you try to kill me?"

"Because…" Vince's eyes grew hard again. "Because I hate you!"

"That makes no sense," Alex cried, shaking him a little. "I barely know you."

"Everything was fine until you came along," Vince said. "I used to have friends. I used to know who I was."

"Could you be any more vague?" Alex asked sarcastically. "We wouldn't want anyone to accidently understand you."

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Vince said, pouting like a five year old.

"Right. You have no obligation to explain an attempted murder to the one you attempted it on."

Vince wilted again. "It's your fault," he said lamely.

"Sorry I didn't die," he spat out, finally letting him go. Vince threw his hands out to catch himself.

"No one would believe you if you told on me," Vince said childishly, rubbing his sore collar.

"Oh I don't know. I have friends in so verylow places," he said, glaring at Vince. "Friends who know how to _complete_ an attempted murder. Got it?"

"Yep," he squeaked.

"Get out."

**PAGE BREAK**

Tom was back in school the next day, but Alex refused to see him. This wasn't a major obstacle for either boy. Like Alex had asked, Smithers had equipped Tom with some gadgets for his own protection. Tom refused to tell him which ones he got, but it at least included an earpiece and watch. Though cell phones would probably be less conspicuous for the amount of talking they were doing, it didn't stop them from talking into their wristwatches all day.

"I think I'm in love," Tom sighed. They were in their respective fourth period classes: studio art and marching band. Neither of which either of them took very seriously.

"Who's it this time?" Alex asked, leaning around his easel to get a better look at the assorted pieces of junk they were supposed to be drawing.

"This time's serious, Alex," Tom chided over the earpiece. "She's perfect for me."

"Who is it?" Alex asked again. It would have been a lot more interesting if this didn't happen every other week.

"Anna Pierce," he said. The trumpets trilled in the background. Alex dropped his pencil.

"No," Alex said. "Tom, tell me I'm thinking of the wrong Anna Pierce."

"Probably not," Tom said. "She's Jones' Jones."

"I know who she is," Alex snapped. Anna Pierce had taken Mrs. Jones old job when Mrs. Jones had been promoted to Mr. Blunt's old position.

"So?" Tom prompted.

"So what?"

"So what do you think?"

"I think you've reached a new level of lunacy," Alex answered, giving up on his drawing and leaning back in his chair.

"Are you saying she's out of my league?" Tom asked defensively.

"Not at all," Alex said snidely. "The girl who graduated from Cambridge Law School at eighteen, got her masters degree by the time she was twenty, and is now working for the country's most sensitive agency is _definitely_ not out of your league. Let's not even mention the fact that she is seven years older than you."

"Shut up, Alex," Tom said. "None of that matters if it's meant to be."

"Tom, she collects landmines as a hobby," ALex said flatly.

"She also likes to knit," Tom said. "Besides, I already told you I'm a pyro."

"This is hopeless," Alex groaned.

"Don't give up, dear," Mrs. Houlihan, the art teacher said kindly. She took his pencil and began making small adjustments. "It's coming along nicely. If you just reshape the bicycle tire like so, you'll find it flows a little better."

"I see what you mean," Alex said, giving her a winning smile. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Not at all, Mr. Rider," she said, patting his shoulder. "You just need to loosen up a bit. An artist is his own worst critic, after all."

"Oh, er. Right, Mrs. Houlihan," Alex said lamely.

"Yeah, Alex," Tom said somewhat self-righteously. "Loosen up. You'll see I'm right in the end."

Alex sighed in defeat. "I'm hanging up now, Tom. I think someone slipped turpentine into my water bottle."

He said the last part quite loudly, looking around for anyone who wasn't surprised. Some of his classmates tittered, some eyed his water bottle blandly, and some rolled their eyes at his dramatics. No one looked concerned, and the only one who looked remotely suspicious was a blushing Mrs. Houlihan.

**PAGE BREAK**

Alex had found it hard to take Mr. Bray's voicemail seriously when he had heard it, but he was beginning to see its validity.

Thursday had been peaceful, but Alex was so highly strung that he had punched Stephen Gibson in the mouth. Stephen and the football team had wanted to take him out for lunch and cajole him into rejoining the team, but he had tried to approach Alex from behind, and received a shiny, new bruise for his efforts.

Well, there went _that_ friendship.

In Alex's defense, his paranoia wasn't completely unfounded. There had been another attempt on his life during the lunch period on Friday. Thankfully the chess club was much better at pretend warfare than they were at actual murder. They had gagged him and handcuffed him to a tree and hoped that he'd starve before anyone found him.

He'd simply broken off the tree branch. How helpless did his classmates think he was? Really, it was almost insulting.

Then again, he _had_ followed an entire chess team into the woods on his own volition, which was dangerous even if they were all such big wimps that he could demolish them with one hand tied behind his back… which he did.

Honestly he was more disappointed that they had lied about wanting to play capture-the-flag, than about their attempt to kill him. He'd really been looking forward to that.

Anyway, he couldn't deny that everyone was indeed trying to kill him.

He was making his way back to the main campus, cuffs still dangling from his wrist, when he ran into Monica Cooper smoking on the side stairs. She had never been a threat to him before, but Alex was already on guard. Most of the people trying to kill him these past few days had never been a threat to him before, either.

She didn't seem hostile, though. She was relaxing against the railing, eyes half-lidded and sleepy as she took rhythmic drags from her cigarette.

"Doing anything fun with those handcuffs?" she asked, smirking at him.

"Depends on your definition of fun," Alex replied, absently pulling another twig from his hair. It hadn't been as fun as capture-the-flag would have been, but clobbering half a dozen chessmen had relieved a lot of pent up stress.

"I would say a romp in the woods would be a lot of fun," she replied with a wicked grin. "Who was she?" She leaned in closer. "Or was it a he?"

"It could be a _you_ if you I thought you could handle it," Alex said, ignoring the blush creeping its way up his neck at the innuendo. He really needed to hang out with females more often.

Monica laughed and stepped back again. "Alright, but I'll find out eventually."

"Let me know what you come up with," Alex said, rolling his eyes.

"Excuse me?" Alex tensed. Suddenly she was not so relaxed. Sparks flew from her eyes. "I do not 'come up' with anything, mister," she said, straightening her jacket angrily. "I am a good investigative reporter. I write only the facts."

Alex lifted an eyebrow. "Right," he said, his voice heavy with skepticism. "According to you I am both a cold-blooded murderer, and a misunderstood church-goer."

"They are not exclusive terms," she said, pursing her lips. "It just goes to show how deceitful you are."

"Alright then," Alex said, crossing his arms. The handcuffs clattered lightly. "Are 'Mr. Wolf's-gay-lover' and 'virgin-killing-ladies-man' exclusive terms?"

"Haven't you ever heard of bisexuality?" she snapped, flicking the butt off her cigarette harshly.

Alex rolled his eyes. Honestly, the nerve of some people. Sabina would be laughing her arse off if she'd heard that one. Then she'd beat Monica up, laugh some more, and go on to beat Alex up, too.

"Think what you want," Alex said in genuine amusement. "I like having goals to aim for."

"Laugh if you like," Monica said, wagging her finger at him. "I'm going to figure you out one day, Alex Rider, and we'll see who's laughing then."

This just made Alex laugh more. "Lighten up, will you? People would like you a lot better if you didn't take everything so seriously."

"Ialready have friends. Unlike _some_ people," she rebutted, throwing her fag down in frustration. It had burned to the quick before she could take another puff.

"Don't be so sure," Alex warned. Alex had seen the people she spent time with. They weren't impressive. In fact, he'd call them scum—if he had been one to judge, that was.

She took a step forward, jabbing him in the chest. "Is that a threat?"

"No," he said, grabbing her finger. She had come precariously close to his old bullet wound. "Just an invitation to look around."

"I don't need to look around. I don't need new friends," she said, tugging on her finger violently. Alex quickly dropped it before she could dislocate anything.

He threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. No need to bite my head off."

Her eyes narrowed again. "I was going to warn you, Rider, but now I think you deserve what is coming."

"I already know people are trying to kill me," he said flatly. She blinked in surprise.

"What? Kill you?" she asked, more eagerly than he liked. "And people? As in, more than one?"

"You need to update your information, it seems," he said, cursing himself for falling into such an obvious trap.

Her mood had done a complete three-sixty. She was suddenly in his face, grabbing his hands excitedly. "You need to let me interview you," she said, her eyes alight. "This could be my big break."

"I would love to, really," he lied, pulling his hands out of hers. "Maybe we could—oh, what's that? Did you hear the bell? Darn. Well, I'll see you in biology tomorrow."

"What? I didn't hear anything. Hey, wait up!" She rushed to gather her things and chase after him, but he was already too far away.

"I'll figure you out, Alex Rider," she promised, her voice echoing behind him.

**PAGE BREAK**

Rosie Bray did not have an aggressive personality. She was by nature a timid and sweet girl, who would go to any length to avoid conflict. Ironically, this is what seemed to get her into the most trouble.

Up until their freshman year at Brooklands, she and her best friend, Rachel Fairchild had been glued at the hip. They hadn't gone out much, but when they did, they went together. They had sleepovers and gave each other makeovers and knew everything about each other.

They still did all that, but Rosie was beginning to feel more and more like she didn't know Rachel.

When Rachel had decided she wanted to expand her social horizons, Rosie had agreed by default. Rachel had a strong personality, and always followed through after deciding something. Rosie could tell she had been ready to fight tooth and nail if Rosie had tried even slightly to dissuade her. So she agreed to go to one party.

Right now, they were in Rachel's room, fixing themselves up to go to their eighth party that semester. Rosie had put her hair up in a French braid in an attempt to tame the unruly curls, but Rachel was teasing hers into a perfect mess. It was beautiful, but it wasn't Rachel.

She had turned the radio on to the hottest radio station, and though Rosie was really enjoying it, it wasn't Rachel's style at all. She played piano, and firmly believed technically altered music was sacrilege—or, she used to at least.

And now she was jabbering about who would be at the party, what they would probably be wearing, and what type of illegal refreshments they should be expecting. Rachel didn't bother softening the details anymore. If there was going to be alcohol, she told her; if there was going to be older boys, she told her; if there was going to be drugs, she told her.

Truthfully, Rosie preferred it this way. She could fortify herself before leaving the house, and dress accordingly. She never tried to make herself stand out, but wore dark clothes, and minimal makeup so as to try and blend in.

Rosie had been really scared the first time she went with Rachel to a party. It had been loud and smoky, and people had wanted her to drink and dance with them. Now it was less scary, but she didn't want to go this time any more than she had that first time.

...But she couldn't just let Rachel go alone. Rachel was pretty and funny, and more gullible than a three year-old. Well, she used to be. Now she was acting grown-up and beautiful, but Rosie wasn't sure if that made her any less gullible.

And Rachel was different now. There was something lurking under the surface, vying for control of her best friend.

"I heard Tom Harris is going to be there, Rosie," Rachel said, wiggling her eyebrows at her.

Rosie blushed. "He goes to these types of things?" she asked, a little concerned.

Tom was a great guy, and Rosie had the biggest crush on him. He played the trombone in the marching band with her. Her section, the French horns, sat right in front of his. She would often overhear snippets of his conversations, and couldn't help being struck by his kindness. So what if he wasn't particularly tall. He was just a late bloomer; he'd get there eventually.

She didn't particularly want him to see her at one of these parties. A lot of scandalous stuff happened at these things, and she didn't want him getting the wrong idea. But if he went there too, then maybe he wasn't as great as Rosie thought. But she wasn't there on her own accord; perhaps he wouldn't be there for his either. Or maybe she was just a prude and took things too seriously.

And besides, she had heard him crooning about some girl he'd met. If she wanted a chance, she knew she'd better make a move already.

"Oh, stop overthinking it, Rosie," Rachel chided, swatting her gently with her hairbrush.

"I'm not," Rosie lied. "I just didn't know he was friends with these people, that's all."

Rachel scoffed. "Are you kidding me? Tom Harris is a friend with everyone. I think it's impossible for someone to hate that guy."

"Lisa Frazier doesn't like him too much," Rosie pointed out.

"Would you like someone who tossed on your lap?" she asked, spritzing herself with an extra splash of perfume to cover the imaginary smell. "Don't answer that. You're so nice, you'd probably apologize for being in his way."

"I would not!" Rosie said, slightly peeved. She huffed, before conceding, "I certainly wouldn't be happy, but it's not like he could help it if he's sick."

"I rest my case," Rachel said, swiveling around to face her friend. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, frowning.

Rosie crossed her arms self-consciously. "It's not like I'm trying to impress anyone," she said, looking down at her jeans and simple blouse.

"I just told you Tom Harris might be there." Rachel took hold of her and pushed her to her closet. "Now pick something else out."

"I'd rather just go in this," Rosie argued weakly. She was already taking steps toward the closet.

"If you don't choose something quick, I'll force you into my smallest, brightest dress."

"Like you could," Rosie muttered, but chose another shirt anyway. It was bright yellow, but one of her less flashy tops—which really only meant it didn't have sequins, sparkles, or feathers adorning it.

Rachel nodded in approval, and peeked out her window. Looking over her shoulder, Rosie could see Roger Burns' car idling in the front, the headlights flipped off.

"Ready?" Rachel asked, hitching her skirt up so she could climb out the window. Rosie rolled her eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were both sleeping; it wasn't like they couldn't walk out the front door like civilized people, but Rachel had always enjoyed overdramatizing things.

_That hasn't changed, at least, _Rosie thought, straddling the window frame awkwardly. _Though, I wouldn't mind if it would. _She hoisted her other leg over, and resisted the urge to shut her eyes. This was always one of the worst parts. She had to jump from the house to the neighboring tree, and then scuttle her way down onto the lawn.

"Come on, Rosie," Rachel hissed from the ground. "You've always been fine before, right?" Rosie nodded, and tried to forget everything she had learned about probability.

Eventually she did make it to the ground and into Roger's car, but she didn't feel much safer here than she had in that tree. She gripped her purse tightly.

"Um. How far is it to… where are we going again?" Rosie asked tentatively.

"We're going to Danny Cox's place," Rachel said, throwing Roger a look of disbelief. Roger snickered. "It's about ten minutes away."

Rosie nodded, and fell silent, feeling rather ill at listening to Roger and Rachel flirt. It was a long ten minutes, and when they finally arrived, there were no cars fighting for a space, no music threatening to induce an earthquake, and no one milling about on the lawn. There was only a gently lit house with an extra van seated in the driveway.

_So it's going to be one of _those_ parties_, she thought her stomach sinking. There couldn't be more than seven people here, including themselves.

These parties were so much worse than the big ones. She knew it wasn't humanly possible for there to be a big, raging party every weekend, but she wished there was. With small groups, Rosie couldn't just pretend to drink, and worse yet, she had to talk to Rachel's friends.

A thought struck her suddenly, and Rosie looked around, praying to spot just one more car. She didn't find it.

"I thought you said Tom was going to be here," Rosie hissed in Rachel's ear as they were walking up to the house.

Rachel shook her head in denial. "I said he _might_ be here—"

"But probably not," Rosie ended for her. "You tricked me," she accused in a small voice.

"Only because I knew you'd have fun," Rachel defended.

She clenched her fists, but couldn't muster the strength to look Rachel in the face. "Rachel, I _never _have fun at these things."

"That's not true," she argued, tugging on her arm. "Now, come on, they're waiting for us."

"I don't want to go inside," Rosie said weakly.

"Please," Rachel said, pouting a little. "I don't want to go in there alone."

"I don't think—"

"Just for an hour, ok?" she insisted. "One hour, and then we'll leave."

Rosie sighed, and let her pull her the house. "One hour, and no more," she allowed firmly.

But, three hours later, Rosie was more than a little tipsy and Rachel was stone cold sober. _Which, _Rosie thought drunkenly, _is quite the reversal of roles. _By this time in the night, Rosie was generally refilling her glass for a second time, and Rachel was swinging from the chandeliers or trying to do a handstand on the table.

But, Rosie reminded herself, it wasn't _that_ kind of party. It had started out with about ten people just milling around and passing around a joint, but soon the numbers began dwindling as people became bored or hungry. Even Danny had left. He was upstairs in his room with some girl. Now there were only four: Roger, Rachel, Rosie, and Vince O'Reilly.

Rachel had been steadily refilling Rosie's cup, and they were being so cryptic that it took Rosie a few moments to really understand what they were talking about. When she did, she downed the rest of her vodka right then and there.

"Do you understand what we want you to do, Rosie?" Rachel asked gently, patting her hand like a mother would a slow child.

"You want me to swipe my dad's keys," Rosie slurred, her head whirling madly. "And not just that, you want me to _give_ them to you."

Rachel gave her a beatific smile. "Right in one, kiddo."

"I'm not going to do it," she said with a venomous glare at her friend.

"Rosie—"

"No! It's wrong," she cried. "It's not like I don't know what you're planning to do."

She didn't miss the secret smile they shared between them, or how quickly it disappeared when she yelled, "You want to murder someone!"

Rachel gave a nervous laugh. "Where did you hear that?"

"I'm not stupid, you know," Rosie said. "I can figure things out. I know it was you who set that car on fire. Why do you think I've been following you everywhere? I'm going to stop you."

"You couldn't if you tried," Vince scoffed.

Rachel sent him a glare, and he shut up. "We're not going to murder someone," she said soothingly. "We are going to—to fix a big problem, that's all."

"Yeah," Rosie scoffed. "By _murdering_ someone."

"You don't understand!" Roger yelled inciting a series of shushes around the circle of conspirators.

"You don't understand," he repeated more softly. "Rid—_this guy _has caused all sorts of pain for everyone here. He's the reason my whole life sucks. And their live's too!" he added, gesturing to Roger and Rachel.

"I thought your life sucked because your mom is a maniac," Rosie said, looking sideways at Rachel. She blushed.

"And why do you think my mom's gone loony?" she asked angrily. "It didn't just happen without reason."

"So did _this guy_ somehow give your mom the biggest ego possible and then whack her in the head, or something?"

Rosie could hear Rachel's teeth grinding in anger, but continued anyway, "Because that's the only way I can see anyone being responsible for your problems."

"Shut up!" she shouted. "Look, we're not asking you to do this." Rosie relaxed a little. "We're telling you to do this," Rachel continued. Rosie went stiff again.

"Wh-what?"

"We can't afford loose ends running around and getting us in trouble," Roger piped in.

"What are you saying?" Rosie asked, shrinking into her seat.

"You know what he's saying," Rachel said bitingly. "Either you're with us, or… you're not."

"I-I…" They leaned in closer, eyeing her hopefully. "I'm going to be sick."

It wasn't even a ploy to remove herself from the room; she really was going to be sick. They ran after her, but as soon as they heard her retching, no one bothered kicking down the door she'd hurriedly locked behind her. She could hear them arguing outside

Between spurts of nausea, Rosie rummaged through her purse, desperately searching for her phone, but Rachel must have swiped it when she wasn't looking to make sure she wouldn't nark on them if thing went bad.

Between the vomiting, the dizziness, and feelings of bewilderment and acute betrayal, Rosie found her body betraying her. Tears streamed down her face and she had to lean against the toilet for support.

Rosie had never taken religion too seriously, but she prayed harder over that toilet than she ever had over an altar, asking anyone to supply a miracle.

Her fingers landed on something square and smooth, and she pulled out the pager she'd forgotten about weeks before.

**A/N There was a lot of short scenes in this chapter, but hopefully it was still exciting for you. I amused myself by naming some OC's after the characters in my favorite TV series. If you know which one I'm talking about, then you're an awesome person. If you don't, that's ok. You can become an awesome person by sitting yourself down and watching it when you figure it out.**

**Thanks again for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

A/N Since there's been such a long delay since my last update, I feel it is my duty to remind you all of what has happened so far.

RECAP:

Mr. Bray was informed of Alex's superspy status because the school is under some sort of threat.

This threat may or may not be Silent Plague, the organization that ruined his life with the Pleasures and forced him back into the arms of MI6.

Several of Alex's classmates and teachers have tried to kill him. Their names are: Rachel Fairchild (who blew up his car), Margie Cutler, Vince O'Reilly, Mrs. Houlihan, and the entire chess team.

Mr. Burns gave the pager that contacts Alex in case of emergencies to his daughter, Rosie.

Rosie used it when her BFF Rachel Fairchild tried to convince her to help in a murder plot.

Which brings us to:

**Chapter 6**

Alex had decided to get to the bottom of this murder thing once and for all. There _had_ to be something linking the angry schoolchildren together, and he was going to find out what it was.

Figuring that Brookland's student records were a good place to start, Alex donned what he called his ninja gear: slightly faded black clothing and war paint. The clothing was slippery and moved silently with him, and the red and black war paint made him look either invisible or monstrous depending on his mood. It was hard to even recognize him as human, let alone Alex Rider, and was perfect for a jaunt of breaking and entering.

Considering all Alex had to do was ask the Janitors for the master key, breaking into Brookland's was ridiculously easy. It was quite the let down. And to think, he'd dressed up and everything.

He strolled into Mr. Bray's office, whistling all the while, and nodding to the camera embedded in the nose on the bust of Brookland's founder. He wondered if he could get his hands on those recordings. He didn't have anything in particular against Mr. Bray, but he enjoyed collecting blackmail material. Call it a hobby.

He sat down at Mr. Bray's desk and booted up the computer. Like every other one of Brooklands' computers, it was annoyingly slow, and Alex took the time to look around.

He had to commend Mr. Bray on his interior decorating skills. He had never seen the room from this angle before, and was surprised at how warm and personal the office was from behind his desk, compared to how professional it was looking in toward the back.

Half a dozen pictures of his wife and daughter sat in ornate frames, smiling happily up at him. However Mr. Bray managed to convince his wife to marry him was beyond Alex. Mrs. Bray was _hot. _Pale skin, long black hair, and exotic features that Alex couldn't pin to any one country, but _maybe_ China. (She also had a great body with breasts like the Himalayas, but the fact that she was Mr. Bray's wife negated most of her appeal.)

He also had a vague feeling he had seen her somewhere before, but wasn't too concerned about figuring it out. He might have passed her in a crowd, or he could be seeing the similarities between her features and her daughter's. Sometimes his memory was _too _good.

He gave one more appreciative look at Mrs. Bray, and then turned again to survey the room. To his left, opposite of the window, were photos of Mr. Bray's university and post-grad days. It was on display for everyone to see, but Alex assumed most people preferred looking out the window.

There were a few other little trinkets littering the place: some mugs, a bobble head, potted plants on the windowsill, even a little zen garden at his elbow. The coup-de-grace, however, was the long, bright poster of some Caribbean island tacked over the doorway. It was absolutely blinding, and Alex wondered how he had never caught sight of it before.

He couldn't help the frown that found its way to his face. Every other time he'd been here, the office had given off a cold, impersonal feel. From Mr. Bray's position, however, he felt like he had been invited to a family vacation at the beach. It made him slightly uncomfortable to be in such a personal space. It was like Mr. Bray wanted everything on display for the world to see. Most people Alex knew tried to hide everything about themselves. Why, Alex's own bedroom wasn't nearly as open as Mr. Bray's _office _was and he lived and slept there.

The computer dinged, signaling that it was finally ready, and the display screen popped up, asking for a username and password. He typed in the generic, only slightly personalized username all staff received on their first day, and stared for a second at the empty password block. Suddenly he didn't feel so uncomfortable in the overly personal office. Glancing around, his grin grew.

"Let's try Bali1959," he whispered to himself. "No? Alright." He didn't try to guess again, instead he rifled through the drawers a little. Mr. Bray clearly wasn't too worried about someone gaining access to his files, because all Alex had to do was move one manila folder to find the sticky note with his password on it.

bali1959

"A lowercase b. I should have known." If Mr. Bray was anything, he certainly wasn't fancy... or complicated... or aware. Maybe stupidly lovable.

The computer pinged again, and again took years loading, but finally Alex was able to open the students' files.

He searched first for Margie Cutler, since the chain of would-be killers had started with her. It wasn't a very surprising portfolio: average grades, no extracurricular activities to speak of, and very few complaints from teachers; overall exactly what one would expect from a girl just trying to get through school. It did mention that she had visited the infirmary a few weeks back, but didn't elaborate.

Vince O'Reilly's file was even less spectacular. His grade had plummeted after the first quarter of their freshman year, and plateaued at a "D" standard. He was reprimanded several times for making very derogatory sexual remarks, and suspended once for sexual harassment. Concerns had been raised about his home life, and he was seeing the school's psychiatrist on a regular basis.

And then there was Jeremy Cole, the president of the chess club. He was also the SGA president, a member of the track team, and the top of the class. Everything he did was done perfectly.

But there, at the bottom of the page beside an asterisk, was a sad little paragraph: _Jeremy Cole's mother was in an automobile accident. After three weeks in a coma, she succumbed to her injuries and died. Treat Jeremy with care._

Jeremy's face smiled at Alex wordlessly. His photo hadn't been updated since sophomore year, and he looked so young and innocent, even if he was already sporting that toothy smile all politicians had. The poor bugger probably never saw it coming. He probably loved his mum more than anything. He probably thought she was invincible.

_Moron, _Alex thought venomously. _Everything ends eventually, even mothers. _Even uncles and housekeepers and family. Life could be perfect, but all it takes is one little accident—one little slip of control—and it all goes to hell in a hand basket.

Without a thought so much as a hazy impulse, Alex typed his own name into the database. Just like Jeremy, his picture was outdated; Alex hadn't been present to take a school photo since freshman year. His smile was genuine, his cheeks puffed with baby fat, his skin smooth and scarless. He was so childlike; Alex wanted to coo at himself. Maybe at fourteen he would have, just to be funny, but almost three years later, Alex couldn't bring himself to make fun of the time when he'd been happiest.

Besides, being wan, sallow, and jaded was no better than being baby-faced and innocent.

He clicked on his profile. His grades were subpar, but that was to be expected. He wasn't present to do the majority of his classwork. It didn't worry him, though. MI6 had always taken his education seriously (after all, a stupid spy is a dead spy), and arranged for him to have the best tutors available whenever he needed them. He had already taken his GCSE's, and done outstandingly well, so he was really only in high school for shits and giggles.

Being a high-schooler was also much more convenient for MI6. When he went off to university, he wouldn't be able to miss nearly as many school days without being hopelessly behind.

Alex scrolled down, and whistled appreciatively. His records were much longer than any of the others he had read. There were numerous complaints about his absence from school, his sleeping in class, the flippant (if correct) remarks he made when someone dared wake him.

Now _this_ was worth laughing at. He didn't even remember saying half these things. Most of his teachers had been so livid that they had thrown proper form out the window when writing up their reports. _"He is a deviant, back-talking, genius," _one said.

Another bemoaned time Tom had tried to cheer him up after a long day at work: _"He and Mr. Harris placed a tack on my chair. When I had left the room to find a bandage, they then flickered the lights on and off and had a dance party. They are devils, and deserve to be exorcised."_

His maths teacher last year had even quoted him: _"Y equals the square root of 3. Anyone with eyes could see that—hell, my eyes are closed, and I figured it out. Go back to school, halfwit."_

That had not been a good day for either of them.

Further down, under the requests for detentions, suspensions, and expulsions that Alex had never been present to receive, sat two or three concerned lines about the quality of his home life, but they were quickly followed with _"These accusations have no merit," _and were forgotten.

Nowhere in his file did it mention the deaths of his uncle and Jack, or of the brief change in guardianship to the Pleasures. Nowhere did it advise faculty to treat him with care.

He wondered what his file at MI6 said about him. Certainly it was much longer than this, and much more accurate. He wondered how Mrs. Jones advised her staff to treat him. It definitely wasn't carefully, that was for sure.

As lost in thought as Alex was, he nearly jumped out of his skin when his watch started buzzing. He stared at it stupidly for a moment, not quite believing what he was seeing. Coordinates flashed at him in an angry red, indicating a location about 14 kilometers from here—much farther than he could bike in a short amount of time. He needed a car. _Damn those cheap government assholes._

Without stopping to turn off the computer or close any doors, Alex ran out of the building to the faculty parking lot. There was one plain looking car to his right, but Alex had no doubt that that was the Janitor's car. It wouldn't be an easy task to hot wire a government issued vehicle, so he moved on. His eyes scanned the desolate parking lot, quickly landing on the only other vehicle in the area.

Brooklands generally rented their school busses from a company down the road, but they had one or two on hand in case of emergencies. To Alex's knowledge, they had never been used. Huge, hulking, and yellow, one sat in the back of the lot, sparkling merrily under the streetlamp.

"You have got to be _kidding_ me," he groaned, but ran around to the passenger's side anyway. He still had the fan club Smithers had given him a while back, and gave the glass door a smart tap, shattering it instantly.

It took him only two minutes to hotwire the bus before he was down the road. As much as he would have preferred his old Camry, or Tom's van, or even a smaller truck, he couldn't help the maniacal laugh that escaped him as he sped down the roads.

His phone sat on the dashboard, acting at the moment as a radio scanner to inform him of police activity. He had learned from experience that getting pulled over by the cops slowed him down more than almost anything else he could encounter. In his ninja gear and war paint, driving a stolen school bus, he couldn't imagine the hoops he would have to jump through to convince them to let him go.

Like usual, he would probably have to escape on his own, and a hot mess would ensue. Actually, it might be a bit fun to have a high-speed chase in a school bus. Maybe on his way back…

No, no. Mr. Bray would have a heart attack.

He turned into a neighborhood, going as fast as he could safely go (No wait, he just ran over a cat. He was going faster than he could safely go), and parked the yellow monstrosity at the end of the driveway so no one could escape in their car.

Creeping to the front of the house, Alex peered inside. The blinds were drawn tightly shut in each window, but Alex could make out several shadowy figures moving in the house. He didn't see a Bray-shaped-shadow anywhere, but there weren't many others—four at the most. They were most likely well trained and well armed, though. He was probably out matched.

Scenarios ran rapidly through his mind. He pocketed his phone and his fan club. He still had his ring-Taser on his right hand; he needed to move quickly.

Alex ghosted to the opposite side of the house, checking each window for an unlocked or faulty latch. Finding none that would suit his purposes, he scaled a nearby tree and leapt lightly on the roof, rolling with the momentum so as to muffle the noise. The first window he tried opened without so much as a squeak. He wasn't surprised. People rarely ever bother locking their bedroom windows, especially if they are located on the second floor.

He strolled through the master bedroom, listening for any sounds of distress. He didn't see anything suspicious so far. The bedroom was typical for the parents of a middle-class family, and so was the hallway.

This didn't put Alex off his guard by any means. Some villains preferred warehouses and dank bunkers, some villains preferred suburbia. Who was he to judge?

He continued searching for Mr. Bray. If the lights were off in the room, he would open the door and have a peek around. If the lights were on, he would press his ear to the keyhole and listen for danger. So far, the only thing remotely interesting he had found was definite proof that Danny Cox was cheating on his girlfriend.

Alex wasn't entirely sure what was going on. He had been expecting grown men holding Mr. Bray at gunpoint, or torturing him for information, and when he had heard Danny and Cassie going at it, he had assumed it had been another accidental summons.

But Mr. Bray was nowhere in sight; there were only teenagers. And Mr. Bray was certainly adept at dealing with teenagers.

But Alex had never been accused of unfinished work. He could hear whispers coming from downstairs, and so made his way toward them, making sure to hug the wall so as not to cause the stairs to creak.

_Ah, _he thought, _now this is interesting._

Rosie Bray sat in the middle of the floor, encircled by her peers, and shaking with nerves and fright. Rachel Fairchild, Vince O'Reilly, and Roger Burns argued in quiet, hissing voices over her head.

Rachel sighed, kicking the sofa in frustration. "I know that," she said in response to something Roger had said. "But what can we do? If we kill her there'd be evidence all over this place. We'd still land ourselves in jail."

"Have you asked yourself what's the price you might pay? _I _think this is worth any sacrifice," Roger said, putting a comforting hand on Rachel's shoulder. "We are doing our duty. Alex Rider can't continue living. We can't let him destroy any more lives. If that means we have to go to prison, then—"

"No one's going to prison," Rachel interjected. "We just have to be a bit more creative."

"Like what? A bribe?" Roger asked. "We don't have those kind of resources."

"No." Rachel threw Rosie a passive glance. "She's not that kind of person anyway."

"We could frame her for it," Roger suggested.

Rachel scoffed and gave him a withering glare. "No one's going to believe she murdered Rider _after_ she's dead."

She turned to Vince, who had been quiet up to this point, and eyeing Rosie lecherously. "Any suggestions, Vince?" she asked.

He nodded slowly, not looking away from Rosie's sniveling form. "I have one or two," he said. His grin grew wide. "She won't be able to talk if we stuff something down that pretty little mouth. Or up her—"

His words caused Rosie to shriek and blubber, and drowned out what he was going to say next. He grabbed Rosie's arm, and pulled her upright. She yelled out. "Shut _up,_ you bitch," he growled, slapping her across the face.

With a roar of anger, Alex leapt out from the shadows, hurling himself at Vince, tackling him to the floor, and ripping him away from Rosie. Vince never stood a chance. Alex was sitting on his chest, pinning his arms down with his knees, and punching him in the face as hard as he could, as many times as he could.

Alex had seen many horrific things in his line of duty, most of which he could think back on impassively (sometimes even appreciatively, though he would only ever admit it to himself during the darkest hours of the night), but what Vince had been about to suggest—about to _do—_was beyond unforgivable.

He took quite a bit of pleasure in making sure no woman could ever look at his face without running away in terror.

"S-stop or I'll kill her," Rachel yelled out.

Alex paused in his ministrations, and looked over his shoulder. Rachel had run to the kitchen and back, and was now pointing a knife at Rosie's jugular. Her hand shook.

Alex stood up slowly, leaving Vince an unconscious heap on the floor, and smirked at Rachel. He could only imagine what he looked like to her: a grotesque monster, half visible in the dim light, spattered with blood, and with eyes thirsting for more.

Well, Alex wasn't one to leave a woman's expectations unfulfilled. He licked his bloody finger, and grinned. "Hmm. Go ahead. I'll watch."

Hearing this, she shoved Rosie out of the way, and aimed the knife at her approaching attacker. He stepped forward, and the knife shook even more violently. Her face had lost all color, and tears gathered in her wide eyes. Eventually, he backed her into a corner.

He leaned in and licked his lips, giggling like a schoolgirl when she screamed. His hand darted out, snakelike, and grabbed the girl's wrist, forcing the knife to the floor, and her arm behind her back. He didn't stop until he heard a pop and a crack, and then dropped her on the floor to let her snivel herself into a faint.

He looked around for his third plaything, but Roger had long since run away. Ah well, he'd see him on Monday.

Dusting his hands off in satisfaction, he turned to collect Rosie. She had overturned the coffee table to use as a bulwark, and was making the sign of the cross through the glass.

"The power of Christ repels you!" she yelled frantically. He threw his hands up in surrender, and took a tentative step toward her.

"_The power of Christ repels you! ThepowerofChristrepelsyou! _God damn it, why isn't this working?"

Alex appeared over the top of the coffee table, and she screamed.

"Don't be scared, Rosie," Alex shouted over her screams. "I'm here to help you."

"If I had know praying over a toilet would summon a demon, I wouldn't have done it!" she cried, crab walking away from him. "I'm a good girl, I swear! I go to church every Sunday, I say grace before meals—"

"I know you're lying, Rosie," Alex said. The Bray's were Buddhist. Or at least, Mr. Bray was. He didn't know about the rest of the family. Rosie gave another desperate scream, and grabbed the closest thing at hand to chuck at him. Alex easily dodged the vase.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'll never do it again!" Rosie wailed. "I'll never lie, I'll never throw things at you, I'll—"

Apparently, the screams of a terrified girl was not enough to rouse Danny from his bedroom, but the shattering of his mother's favorite vase was. He thundered down the stairs to give them a piece of his mind, took one look at Alex, and the lifeless bodies on the floor, and ran back upstairs.

"Shut up, Rosie," Alex finally said. Her mouth snapped shut. "Your prayers didn't summon me, the pager did. I'm assuming your dad gave it to you?"

Rosie nodded, eyes still wide and watery.

"If your dad of all people gave it to you, then you have no reason not to trust me."

"Then you're not a demon from the pits of hell?" she asked squeakily.

"No more than you are," Alex said, holding out his hand to help her up. She just stared at the bloody, dirty skin. He put it back down.

"Why are you wearing those clothes, then?" she asked. "And that makeup."

"Warpaint," he corrected, a little affronted. He puffed his chest out in a manly way. "I was… going to a fight club," he lied.

"Really? A real one?" she said, looking hesitant again. "What's your name?"

"I guess I really don't look like myself," he said grinning. "I'm Alex Rider."

"That explains _so _much," she said, finally shaking herself off and standing up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, thrown.

"Just that it explains a lot," she said. She cast her eye at the prone forms of her friends, and wilted in on herself. "Can we leave now? I don't want to stay here much longer."

"Yeah," Alex said. Secretly, he was very relieved that she had decided to trust him, if only a little. There was no doubt in his mind that Danny had just called the police.

He led Rosie out the door, careful not to touch her. "I hope you don't mind that I brought a limo."

"Oh my God," she said, stopping abruptly when she saw the stolen school bus. "My dad is going to kill you."

She blushed when she realized her word choice. "Um. I mean—"

"He'll get over it," Alex said, not affected at all by her faux pas. "After you, m'lady," he said, bowing her into the bus. "Be careful of the glass."

She settled into the seat behind the driver as Alex picked at the wires again. "You know," she said, "I always dreamed that a knight in shining armor would whisk me away on his noble steed… somehow this is not how I pictured it."

Alex laughed. "Sorry, princess. I'm afraid horses don't like me very much."

"I'd settle for a jaguar," she said distractedly.

"I don't think a jaguar would like me much better than a horse," he answered.

"I meant the car," she said, propping her head on the back of his seat. "Do you have to go so fast?" she asked, a little nauseated again.

"You're dad's probably worried out of his mind," Alex said in reply.

"Don't take me home!" she said quickly. She blushed when he raised an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror. "I mean. He thinks I'm at Rachel's. I don't want to disappoint him, you know?"

Alex did know. He had been a constant disappointment to all of his guardians—except maybe MI6, but he wasn't sure he should be too proud about making them proud.

"Yeah," he said, taking the next left turn. "Any place you have in mind, then?"

She blushed. "Er… no," she said lamely. "I have no friends besides Rach—I mean. I have no friends now."

"What about family?" Alex asked gently. "Do you have a cool aunt that wouldn't say anything to your parents?"

"My mum's family is in China, and my dad's only sibling is thirteen years older than him. She's more obsessed with cats than her alcoholism. So no 'cool' aunt, at least."

"Thirteen years is a big age gap," Alex couldn't help but note. He eyed Rosie, hoping she'd say what he suspected had happened.

"Well, Dad was a bit of a, you know… accident?" She blushed at what she was insinuating.

Alex grinned triumphantly.

"Could I maybe," Rosie said, sinking into her seat in embarrassment. "Stay at your place tonight?"

Alex's smile dimmed. "No," he said without a second thought.

"Just this one night," she pleaded. "You won't even know I'm there. I'll be as quiet as a church mouse."

"No," Alex repeated, even though he could hear the desperation in her voice.

The thought of her in his house set him on edge. After returning from the Pleasures, MI6 had given him his childhood house to use, despite his wishes to find other lodging.

Their reasoning made sense. Ian Rider was only one in a long string of very paranoid Rider men, all of whom had added their own little safety features before passing the house to his son. Alex's house was probably the safest place on the planet. Even MI6 hadn't been able to get inside; Alex had had to mail them the key.

Alex knew very well that it was likely the best place for him, but he didn't have to like it.

Rosie crept up from her hiding place behind the seat, so only her eyes were showing. "I'm very good at cleaning up. I'll do your chores. And my mom says my brownies are the best she's ever tasted."

"I'll take you to a hotel. You can stay the night there, I'll pay," he decided.

"No!" Her whole face appeared over the seat, more panicked than he'd ever seen it. "I can't be alone tonight. What if they come back?" she asked in a whisper.

Alex sighed. "How can you feel safe staying with a boy you just met?" he grumbled. Her eyes were dark and doe-like, and downright adorable. Alex refused to meet them.

"Like you said, my dad gave me that black boxy thing—"

"Pager," Alex corrected.

"Yeah. And you saved me," she continued, growing more confident as she spoke. "You're not what everyone says you are."

"No," Alex countered. "I'm pretty much exactly what they say."

"No," she said, drawing the word out like she was thinking. "I think you only pretend."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you saved me even though I think you were looking for my dad," she said. Her brow crinkled. "And why would a delinquent give the headmaster a way to get in touch with him in an emergency. It doesn't—"

"Fine," Alex said, if only to stop her line of reasoning. "You can stay the night at my house."

"Oh thank you!" she said, showing him her first real smile. "I promise you won't even know I'm there."

"That's not necessary." An idea struck him. "You just have to tell me a little about Rachel Fairchild and her minions."

Rosie froze. "I... you mean tonight? I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it."

"That is my only condition, and it is nonnegotiable," Alex said firmly. "I need to figure out what is going on before she hurts someone else."

The accusation Cameron Newt had filed against Rachel had never found solid ground. Sure, she might have had the resources to build a car bomb, but there was no motive for her to do so.

Now that several more of his classmates had also attempted to kill him for _no fucking reason_, her guilt seemed more plausible. Throw in the conversation he had just overheard, and it was basically ironclad.

"I-I don't know," Rosie whispered. "I think Rachel is going through—"

"Rachel is dangerous," Alex interrupted, fixing her a stern look. "Do you agree?"

"I—"

"She held a knife to your throat while plotting my murder," he stated bluntly. "She's dangerous. Now, will you do what say?"

"Yes," she said meekly. "I'll… I'll tell you about her."

**PAGE BREAK**

Alex parked the bus a few blocks down from his house so that Mrs. Jones could send someone to pick it up without suspicion.

They walked the rest of the way, Rosie sniffling all the while. Asking about Rachel seemed to have broken loose the dam, and all the grief and shock she had experienced that night hit her full force.

He unlocked the front door, and led her into the living room, sitting her down, and handing her the remote control. She took hold of the blanket resting on the couch, threw it over her head so he couldn't see her face, and began to cry in earnest.

He deliberated on how to comfort her. He wanted to rip the blanket from her grip and tell her to pull herself together, but couldn't bring himself to do it. His hand darted back and forth as he tried to figure out if it was appropriate to pat her and say "there, there" like Jack had always done.

In the end, he clenched his fist, and went to put on some tea. It took but a moment to warm, and he walked it over to her.

"I made you some tea," he said, clearing his throat. There was no response from the mass of blanket other than a pitiful wail.

Alex huffed. There were a great many things he was good at, but comforting little girls was not one of them. He wasn't her mother for crying out loud.

He looked down at his ninja gear and bloody hands. Perhaps it would help if he looked human again. Making sure all the doors were locked, and all the curtains closed, he left Rosie to cry, and went to take a shower.

When he returned, Rosie was curled around her tea, watching a Latino soap opera, the blanket still wrapped firmly around her shoulders.

"Can you understand what they are saying?" Alex asked, nodding his head at the television. Little droplets of water flew from his hair.

"Nuh-huh," she sniveled, shaking her head.

Alex turned his attention to the tele for a moment. "Her husband just died, leaving everything to his mistress, and now they are destitute," Alex translated.

"Oh," she said, burrowing down even further into the cushion.

"It's actually quite funny," he said as the woman on the screen punched her late-husband's mistress and fell into tears.

"I didn't know you sp-spoke Spanish," she stuttered miserably. She felt bad. Alex was doing his best to cheer her up, and she was just blubbering over his blanket.

"Yeah," he answered. "My uncle left me one time in the middle of Madrid, so I learned pretty quickly."

"That's awful," she gasped.

"No, no," Alex said, backtracking very quickly. "We had family friends there. It was only for a few months, anyway."

She didn't look very pacified, so he neglected to tell her Uncle Ian had done the same thing in St. Petersburg, Versailles, and Munich, and then in Tokyo and Florence for a shorter period of time.

This had been before Jack had come to live with them. At the time they had been grand adventures—even if Alex had felt a bit abandoned by his uncle. Now he realized they were business trips, and Ian hadn't been able to leave the kid alone for that long, no matter how good Alex had gotten at taking care of himself.

"Are you feeling better?" Alex ventured.

"I don't think I'll ever feel better," she muttered. "I mean," she said quickly, not wanting to spurn his attempts at being nice to her. "I-uh…" a thought struck her. "Will your parents mind me staying the night?"

"No," Alex said, moving to sit next to her on the sofa. "They're not here."

"That's convenient," Rosie said, more relieved than she'd realized. "Where are they?"

"Everyone says they were great people, so I assume they're up in the sky drinking martinis or something."

"You mean they've… passed on?" Rosie asked quietly, horrified to have brought the subject up.

"Yeah," he said, not quite knowing how to lighten the mood again. A moment passed.

"My uncle and guardian are gone, too," he said, quickly realizing that whatever he'd been trying to accomplish, this was not the way to do it.

"Oh how awful!" she wailed, bursting into tears again. She reached out to give him a hug.

He quickly jumped up, out of her reach. They were _not_ on hugging terms yet. He wasn't on hugging terms with anyone except maybe Sabina, but even that was stretching it.

"Want some more tea? Great," he said, pulling the mug from her hands. Some of it sloshed onto the floor.

He turned on the stove, and calmed himself as the kettle began to heat. He was way out of his depth here. Way, _way _out of his depth.

Touchy-feely, chick-flick moments were not his thing. They never had been. Growing up with the most stoic man on the face of the planet had made certain of that. Jack had been quite distressed when he wouldn't allow her to hold his hand or hug him except in the direst of seven year-old situations.

He felt his heart catch, and then scowled at the pain. This is why he didn't like visitors. If he was alone in the house, he was fine. He didn't have to turn on the lights, look at the pictures, or think about how Jack would comfort sniveling girls. He could simply trudge to his room, do his homework, and go to bed. The end.

He picked up the phone and called for backup.

"Alex, you no-good turd." Tom's voice was groggy through the phone. "Do you know what time it is?"

Alex's lips quirked upward. "Too damn early?"

"Too damn early," he repeated more forcefully. "What do you want?"

"Can you come over?" he asked.

This woke Tom up quickly. "Come over? As in, walk to your house, knock on your door, and come inside?"

"As far as I know, that is what 'come over' means," Alex said, irritably.

"I haven't been to your house in... Christ, it's been two years since I've laid eyes on the place, let alone stepped inside."

"Yeah, well. Sorry," he said, not sorry at all.

"What's going on, Alex?"

"There's a girl here," he said lowly, peeking around the doorframe to make sure Rosie couldn't hear him.

Tom whooped across the line, and then froze suddenly. "Oh, for all that is holy. Don't tell me I have to explain these things to you."

"What? No!" Rosie looked over to see what was wrong, and Alex ducked back into the kitchen. "She's... _leaking_, and I can't make her stop."

"Oh fuck, man." Alex heard Tom's phone clatter on the floor as he dropped it in disgust. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. "That's gross. I did _not_ need to hear that."

"Not like that!" He yelled into the receiver so Tom could hear him across the room.

"How did you think I'd take it?" he asked, his voice growing louder as he neared his phone again.

"She's crying, you perv," Alex hissed.

"Oh that's easy. Just offer her some ice cream, and apologize over and over."

"I don't have ice cream," Alex said. "And why should I apologize? I saved her life."

"Doesn't matter. It makes girls feel better. Repeat after me: I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no. Get the inflection right. I'm _sor_ry."

"I'm _sor_ry."

"Yeah. Now say: that reeally sucks."

"That reeally sucks."

"Things will get better with time. And give a little nod at the end."

"Things will—gah. This is stupid. Just come over, Tom," Alex said, brooking no argument.

"Alex," Tom whined. "I'm warm and comfortable, and I was having the best dream about—"

"I'll bring you into work so you can chat up Anna Pierce," he interrupted.

"And we'll stay there for at least two hours," Tom wagered.

"One hour is all you're getting," he replied flatly.

"Deal. I'll be over in ten minutes."

Alex hung up the phone and walked back into the living room. Rosie looked much better. Her eyes were dry, if still red and swollen, and she looked at him and more in embarrassment than in fear.

"My cat died when I was eleven," she said, clearly trying to find some common ground.

"I'm _sor_ry," Alex replied, hoping that for once Tom would be on time.

**A/N Sorry for the delay, but the good news is midterms are over and spring break is here, so hopefully I can churn out one more chapter before school starts back up.**

**This is my favorite chapter by far—longest one too. I have few quick comments, though.**

**1) If you don't remember it, the fan club was one of Smithers' gadgets in cannon. It is a folding fan with really strong steel plates in it to smash things.**

**2) I snuck in a line from Les Mis. I couldn't help myself. 10 points to anyone who reads it and bursts into song.**

**3) Lastly, I'm not surprised no one guessed the t.v. show I was alluding to in the last chapter, it's an oldie goldie. If you have time, you should watch M*A*S*H. You will laugh, you will cry, but mostly you will laugh.**

**I want to thank you all again for reading, and especially those of you who review. I appreciate every single one. **


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